


Wulvanferske

by sansaswildlinglover



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blood Magic, Breeding, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Genderbending, Human Sacrifice, I think this sort of qualifies as, Mating Bites, Mating Rituals, Matricide, Mentions of Rape, Mentions of Violence, Mentions of miscarriage, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Patricide, Rhaegar is a sex slave, Ritual Public Sex, Sex Dreams, Slow Burn, Werewolves, Witchcraft, and also probably, don't let those last 5 tags scare you off, mentions of ramsay - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2020-08-19 01:50:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 30,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20201770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansaswildlinglover/pseuds/sansaswildlinglover
Summary: Wildling Jon is captured during a raid and brought to Winterfell. He's not sure why these kneelers are playing their games with him instead of just killing him. But then he learns the Wolf Queen has other plans with him.Despite their differences, Jon and Sansa grow closer as they discover more about the past and the future, and secrets are revealed.But old and new enemies are closing in, finding allies in those driven by grudges and resentment.Set in a world that is similar to canon Westeros, but with more magic, and some other differences!CHAPTER 16: AUTHOR'S NOTE





	1. Jon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [israfel00](https://archiveofourown.org/users/israfel00/gifts).

> Please, accept this offering as an apology for all the stories I may never write!
> 
> I hope you like it :D

Jon had known something was off the moment he set foot in the village. It was too quiet. He'd seen a flash, or a shadow perhaps, from the corner of his eye, and he'd opened his mouth to shout: "It's a trap!" but it had been too late.

Jon fought tooth and nail, aware the Knaler were going to kill him, which only made him more determined to take down as many of them with him as possible. He thought he'd seen Tormund and Ygritte get away, but he saw Orell, Harma and Jarl die before his eyes. 

He was panting and sweating, his arm getting heavier as blood dripped down from his cut eyebrow, rendering him half-blind, friends and foes falling all around him. Then he felt a heavy blow to the back of his skull, and everything went black.

The first time he woke up, he was barely aware of what was happening around him, the wound on his head pounding, hanging down as it was. The weight of his swaying limbs was pulling him down, pushing his ribs against the warm, firm body under him. The smell of horses and leather surrounded him.

The second time he gained consciousness, his nostrils filled with tallow and woodsmoke, and when he opened his eyes it was darker, the air stuffier and heavier. He could feel hard, cold stone against his back. They must have been brought inside somewhere.

Around him he recognized Halleck, Gornik,and Brelsa, and a boy from Hardheme whose name he'd never learned. 

A tall, skinny woman in a black dress with white sunbursts all over the bodice entered the room. She was young, with a smooth pale face, and wore her long dark hair in a braid. She lifted her pointy chin as she looked at them with revulsion in her stern blue-grey eyes. She walked past all of them, studying their faces and meeting their gazes. 

Jon thought she looked at him a little longer than the rest of them, but then she walked away from them, turning back to face them from the other side of the room and announced in a clear voice: "They will be hanged at dawn."

He closed his eyes, chin dropping to his chest. If only he could have died in the ambush. 

"Ecxept for this one," the woman then said, and Jon's eyes flew open at the proximity of her voice. "We'll send this one to the Kwene," she added, glaring down at him.

Jon wasn't sure what to feel: relief, fear, anger? "What are you going to do to me?" he heard himself ask.

The dark-haired woman was almost out of the room when she slowly turned around to smirk down at him. "That's for the Kwene to decide."

He was brought to Winterfell locked up in a cage like an animal. He raged at his captors, cursing and threatening them, but it was no use. Once he tried to escape when they let him out to relieve himself, but there were too many of them.

They dragged him back to his cage, taking no care to be gentle, and when he tried to shake off their rough hands, one of them blackened his eye, opening the wound over his eyebrow again. 

They arrived at the castle on the night of the full moon, off to the north, in the woods they'd passed through a wolf started howling as they entered the gates. 

Once inside he was brought to a tower cell and left to his own devices, his hands tied behind his back. Despite his best efforts, his exhaustion was stronger than his will and even his fears, and close to dawn, he fell asleep.

It was only hours later that he awoke to the sound of voices outside his door.

"This man was captured during a raid?" a woman asked.

"That's what Frou Karstark said in her letter," an older man answered.

"And did Frou Karstark explain why she didn't deal with the wyldling herself? The law is clear." Jon thought she sounded annoyed.

"Frou Alys wrote that she's sending him here as a gift to you. She is expecting you to be pleased."

The woman huffed in response and the door flew open. A thin, old man in grey robes entered the room, quickly making way for the woman behind him. 

She was even taller than the woman she'd referred to as Frou Karstark. She was clad in a simple brown dress that wrapped around her shapely frame and was tied together at her waist. It had no embellishments, except for a thick, fur collar. She was barefoot, and her feet were covered in dirt. 

It was her hair that caught Jon's attention though, curls kissed by fire and mussed into a tangled mess, twigs and leaves sticking out of it. Her features were delicate with a plump pink mouth and rosy cheeks, yet her face looked as if it was cut from stone.

When she saw him, her icy blue eyes went wide. She lifted her chin, and folded her hands in front of her, quickly composing herself, but Jon hadn't missed her odd reaction. 

"Do you know who I am?" she asked him in a detached voice.

He spat onto the dirty rushes covering the floor. "I don't know any Knaler!"

A slight frown appeared between her eyebrows, but she ignored his outburst. "I am Sansa Stark," she told him. "Kwene and Hegeprystess of Noarlan. I don't kneel to anyone."

He glanced up at her in surprise. "You're the Wulf Kwene?"

She tilted her head. "So you've heard of me?" Her voice didn't sound so cold anymore, there was even a hint of amusement to it.

He nodded. "_Ja_."

"You seemed surprised. Why?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "I was told you were a hekse, half woman, half wolf."

A peel of laughter escaped from her lips. It was a musical sound, a dangerous one. "Who told you this?"

"Many people," he shrugged. "The Fergermen tell stories about you Sudligers."

She laughed. "Did you hear that, Meister Luwin? He calls us Sudligers!"

The old man responded with a nod and a restrained smile. 

"What's your name, Fergesman?" she asked him, still looking at the man she called Luwin.

"Jon Sno," he answered reluctantly.

The Wulf Kwene kneeled on the dirty rushes in front of him, her blue eyes no longer icy, but dark as a deep lake in summer and twinkling with amusement. Her lashes were long and dark and there was a dusting of freckles on her fair skin.

He licked his lips and instinctively jerked away from her as she leaned in. She smelled of pine and moss and dirt, but there was also a hint of something metallic.

"Your people were right about me," she whispered, her hot breath fanning against his ear. "I'm looking forward to hearing all of those stories."

She laughed again and pushed herself to her feet, brushing the dirt off her skirts with her hands. 

"Dyne Hegenesse, this young _Fergesman_ would make a perfect candidate for the ritual, don't you think?" the old man suddenly piped up.

The queen looked down at him, worrying her teeth over her bottom lip. "Yes, I suppose he would. We'll have to wait until the Follmoan of Keimper."

"Very well, Myne Kwene."

"The Fergesman is hurt, Meister" she added as they left the room. "See to it that his wound is cleaned and bandaged and that he is bathed and fed."

"Of course, Dyne Hegenesse," the old man answered as the door was locked behind them.

Jon could feel his heart beating in his throat. He'd heard what kind of rituals the Sudligers performed at their Hertbom.

On the other hand, he'd also heard that the queen was not completely human, but looked like a Trollfrau with the ears, eyes, teeth and tail of a wolf, which had definitely been a lie. Sansa Stark was possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

But he couldn't take any risks. He wasn't going to let these people sacrifice him to their bloodthirsty Goader. He still had almost two moons to escape. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lexicon
> 
> Knaler: kneelers  
Hardhem: Hardhome  
frou: lady  
wyldling: wildling  
(myne) kwene: (my) queen  
hegeprystess: high priestess  
Noarlan: the North  
Sudliger: Southroner  
wulf kwene: wolf queen  
hekse: witch  
Fergesman: free man  
meister: maester  
Sno: snow  
Dyne Hegenesse: Your Highness  
Follmoan: full moon  
Keimper: March  
Hertbom: Heart Tree  
Goader: Gods


	2. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a Sansa POV: there's not as much action or dialogue as there was in the Jon POV, this is mostly Sansa reflecting on (recent) events.
> 
> I also wanted to add that I chose not to adapt the names of the Northerners and other characters to the language I'm using in this story, because I think it might be too confusing and/or distracting.

Sansa twirled her quill between her fingers, trying to think of a polite way to deny Herra Cerwyn's request for a betrothal. There was no point in even entertaining the possibility.

She had already been married three times since she'd inherited the Kroan at the age of eighteen, and all of her marriages had ended in blood and death.

The Noarmen were aware of her history, but still Herran like Cerwyn and Tallhart, and even Sudligers such as Bracken and Hardyng, were willing to take the risk for a chance to father the next Kwene of Noarlan, in order to tie their family to the Starks.

The courting, betrothal and outright marriage offers had been a constant nuissance since she'd started bleeding soon after her twelfth nameday. They'd become more aggressive after her mother's death, and soon after, she'd thought it best to accept the offer one a candidate she'd thought most suitable. On parchment, Domeric Bolton had seemed perfect, but he had soon proven to be her first great disappointment in life.

She rubbed her temples to ward off the headache the unpleasant memories were starting to give her. Soon she would be free. If everything went according to plan, she wouldn't have to deal with letters such as these anymore in little over two moons time. 

She leaned back in her chair and pinched the bridge of her nose. Unfortunately matter weren't going the way she'd hoped when the Goader had given her a glimpse of her mate. Her heart had rejoiced the moment she'd laid eyes on him, but of course he hadn't recognized her, not after fifteen years. She wouldn't have known him either, if it hadn't been for the vision the Goader had sent her just before the last Yarturne, as she lay bleeding and sobbing on the Goaderwald floor. 

She could have wept again when Jon had told her his name. He hadn't forgotten his name, even if the potion their mothers had given him had made him forget all the rest, even her.

She still remembered her own screams and the hot, blinding tears she'd cried the day Eddara and Lyanna had sent her cousin away for his own safety. Noarlan had still been weak after years of war, and they had not been able to stand against the armies of the Lonyn Kwene.

Her mother and aunt hadn't been sure whether Cersei Lannister wanted to kill him, because even a boy could be a threat to the Troan she'd taken from the Draeker Kwene, or if she wished to groom him to become her own daughter's mate, strengthening her claim and bloodline, but Jon had been in danger, and the best way to protect him had been to send him away, beyond the borders of San Keningriger.

But now he'd been raised as a Fergesman, taught to hate her, and Sansa wasn't sure how she was going to change that. She was afraid to be hurt again, especially now that it mattered more than ever to her, and she had recognized the urge to put up her mask and push him away, to make him think he was right about her. She wouldn't only be fighting his hate and his prejudice, but her own heart's fears. 

She'd smelled a hint of the wolf on him, slight, but it had been there, which meant there was hope, hope for her mate to get his memories back, for them to bond, for her to find happiness and no longer feel alone all the time. At the very least, there was hope that she'd finally have a child of her own. Sansa wasn't sure she'd survive if another babe were to die in her womb. 

She'd seen the way Jon looked at her, she could make him want her, convince him to give her his seed. He could give her a child, but she wanted more, so much more.

Perhaps she would be able to bury the girl with childishly stupid dreams that was still alive deep inside if she had never seen that vision, but now that she had, she knew she could never forget it, not unless all of her hopes would be crushed.

When she closed her eyes, she could almost see it again: them running in the Wulvanwald together, howling at the moon, shifting back to make love under the stars, falling asleep in each other's arms and then returning to the keep at dawn to find their children waking up. 

Sansa took a deep breath, fanning away the tears with her hands, and pushed away from her desk, rising to her feet.

She already knew where they would lead her when she walked out the door, and a quarter of an hour later, she found herself standing in front of her mother's statue in the crypts. She always took comfort in seeing that stern, stone face staring down at her. If she squinted, in the dark, it very nearly morphed into the soft smile she'd loved so much, grey eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Are you proud of me, Mem?" she whispered. 

Whenever she asked that question, the answer never came, which meant she'd only have to try harder, be better. She'd been Kwene for six years now, and not a fortnight went by that she didn't stop and wonder whether she was doing well enough, if she could live up to the examples of all the Starks who'd come before her.

She'd grown used to it by now though, governing a realm, defending borders, negotiating trade deals, feeding and protecting her people, giving them justice, dealing with petty Frouer and Herran who wanted more power or gold or land, serving the Goader and taking care of the land.

She was not sure she was fit to handle the problem she was facing now.

"Should I tell him, Mem? Is that the right way? Or should I just let things run their course, and hope they work out?"

She knew she couldn't defy fate, and yet the possibility of losing control over this scared her.

"I'm afraid. What if I push him away, or try too hard? What if I lose everything?"

Eddara Stark's stone face remained as still as ever. Sansa knew there was a spell that would allow her to talk to the dead. But was it worth the risk? It was probably better to turn to the living for advice

_What would Daeda say?_ she wondered. It was easy to imagine his answer, she thought with a smile. Colin Tully would remind her of his own house words. _Famyle, Ditte, Eare. _Family comes first, he'd always pointed out. But in this case both her future child and Jon were family, so who was she supposed to put first if it came to that?

Daeda couldn't answer that question for her. He was far away in Flodlan, in his own home of Flodfaste. And even if she could talk to him, he could not make her choices for her. 

Perhaps she should focus on the part she could control. Meister Luwin was already searching the books for the magic behind Jon's memory loss, and a possible explanation why he hadn't shifted yet, though he was a couple of moons older than Sansa.

Mem and Moike had both died too soon, before they could teach her all of the tradyshe en faerdiger of her family. She should remember to ask Frou Karstark and Frou Mormont what their own family's wisdom said about these matters, but in all of the tellings she'd never heard of a case such as Jon's.

All she could do now was pray to the Goader for guidance, so from the crypts she went back to her chambers and then to the kitchens, to gather some supplies. She put all of them in a basket and walked to the Goaderwald, softly singing to herself.

After performing her rituals and saying her prayers, Sansa felt better. Peace had come over her mind, and she no longer found it difficult to believe that the Goader still had a kind fate planned for her.

Her body didn't share the calmness of her mind though, the moon was rising, and it would be full again tonight. At sunset she'd go out to the Wulvanwald again, and she vowed it would be one of the last nights she'd be running alone under the moonlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lexicon
> 
> Herra: Lord  
Noarmen: Northmen  
Kroan: Crown  
yarturne: New Year, which would be marked by the beginning of Spring, in the month Keimper/March  
Goaderwald: Godswood  
Lonyn Kwene: lion(ess) queen  
troan: throne  
Draeker Kwene: Dragon Queen  
San Keningriger: the Seven Kingdoms  
Wulvanwald: Wolfswood  
Mem: mother  
Daeda: father  
Famyle, Ditte, Eare: Family, Duty, Honour  
Flodlan: the Riverlands  
Flodfaste: Riverrun  
Moike: aunt  
tradyshe en faerdiger: literally: tradition and skills, meaning magic  
telling: tale, story  



	3. Jon

Jon had been in Winterfell for three nights and two days now. There was a window in his tower cell, which made it possible for him to at least keep up a semblance of time.

As promised, his wounds had been taken care of, and he'd been bathed and regularly fed. So regularly in fact that he'd been wondering if they were trying to fatten him before being sacrificing him. Were they planning to eat him as well? There was no telling how far these Sudliger Knaler were willing to go for their barbaric beliefs.

It angered him. These were the people who called the Fergermen savages, when they were the ones who'd keep a man prisoner for moons for whatever cruel game this was they were trying to play with him. 

He'd woken at dawn, watching the sun rise from his tower, wondering how he was supposed to escape. Getting out of this cell would be easy enough, but he had no idea of his whereabouts within the castle, how many guards there would be outside, how crowded the hallways would be, where the best place would be to slip past the walls.

His best chance would be to befriend someone in the castle, but he knew that was nigh impossible. No one would be willing to befriend a _Wyldling _like him, as the Sudligers called him.

He heard footsteps outside the door and the key turned in the lock. Instead of the usual pair of guards, two women entered the room. The dark-haired woman would have been pretty, if it weren't for the large chunk of her nose that was missing. He'd seen it before. Many a Fergesman had lost an ear, a toe or a finger to frostbite during the winters.

To his surprise his second visitor was the Kwene herself. He nearly hadn't recognized her this time. Her hair was smooth and shiny, braided back from her face and she was wearing shoes, a pair of sturdy leather boots. Her gown was a simple one again, but made of a bright green well-made fabric. It was a pretty colour on her.

The first woman had brought a tray of food for him, and the queen was carrying her meister's basket. She kneeled before him, as she had the first day, on rushes that had since been replaced.

"You told me you didn't kneel to anyone," he pointed out stupidly, not knowing what else to say.

Her lips curled into a smirk. "Consider yourself lucky then, Fergesman."

"Jon," he corrected her, reaching for a hunk of bread.

"Leave that," she told him. "I need to check on your eyebrow first."

He continued chewing the bread as she unwrapped the bandage from around his head.

"Do you usually busy yourself with tending to prisoners' injuries?" he asked her.

She scrunched up her nose, the look of concentration not fading from her face. "No," she admitted. "But you're not a prisoner. You're my guest."

He huffed. "Guests can leave whenever they please and are usually given freedom of the castle."

"I wasn't aware you were well-versed in our Sudliger Knaler traditions," she commented, dabbing a liquid onto the cut in his eyebrow that stung and made him hiss. 

"But fair enough, you got me there," she added as she applied a thick paste on his wound. Her tongue darted out to wet her pink lips as she was working. He lowered his eyes, but quickly got distracted by the long line of her pale neck, and lower still the way her bosom was straining against the neckline of her gown.

He closed his eyes and reminded himself she was not the sweet, pretty girl she seemed to like to pretend she was.

"I don't understand how that cut got so bad," she muttered as she started wrapping it with a fresh bandage. 

His nostrils flared and his eyes flew open, meeting her blue gaze. "It was healing, but one of your men opened it again for me."

Her hands stilled. "I'm sorry. I didn't know. They shouldn't have done that." There was sincerity in her voice.

"They also put me in a cage. Did you know _that?"_

"No," she answered without hesitation. "I didn't. Karheld is closer to the Wall. Their villages and farms often fall victim to Fergermen raids."

He averted his eyes, trying to look anywhere but her face, and found the other woman, who was still waiting by the door. "What happened to her face?" he asked.

The Kwene pushed herself to her feet and tossed his dirty bandages into the small fireplace. _"That," _she started, raising herself to her full length, "would be considered a rude question, even among the _Wyldlings._"

It was the first time he'd heard her use that word in front of him. 

"If you really want to know, you should ask Jeyne herself."

He pressed his lips together, glaring back at her.

"Very well then," she said. "Jeyne, would it please you to tell Jon here what happened to your nose?"

And that was the first time she'd used his name. Even in her anger, there was a familiarity to the way she pronounced it. 

"If it please you, Myne Kwene," the other woman answered.

"Perhaps it would please me if you told him to bugger off," she answered with a polite smile, holding his gaze. 

"Bugger off, _Jon_," Jeyne sneered at him, and the queen kept smiling at him.

"Can I tell him now?" the other woman's voice broke the tension as Jon glared back at her.

She nodded, and Jon reached for his tray of food. There was butter to go with the bread he'd half-finished, a piece of honey comb, a rasher of bacon and a bowl of porridge. It was a meal fit for a Kening.

"I was forced into a marriage to a cruel man," Jeyne began, as if she was recounting a telling she'd heard once. "If I told you about all of the things he did to me, I'm sure you'd lose your appetite. You might even throw up your food again."

He looked up at her and stopped chewing his bacon, showing her she got his attention. 

"I had one chance to get out. There were people who wanted to help me," she continued, looking down at her hands. "They all died in their attempt to save me. But I got out. I lost my nose, three fingers and most of my toes, but I got out."

"What happened then?" Jon asked.

"Her husband wasn't pleased that his wife had run away from him," the Kwene continued the story. "So he sent a hunting party after her. It was something he'd done before, hunting women for pleasure."

"He always won these games, his hounds were very good. When he found the girls, he'd kill them, then rape them, sometimes the other way around. And then the hounds got the meal they'd earned."

Jon's mouth had gone dry, his food lay abandoned on his tray. It was obvious they'd told this story before. He wasn't sure what was more disturbing, the telling of this cruel and twisted Sudliger, or the detached way these women were relating it to him.

"How did you get away?" he heard himself asking.

Jeyne reached for the Kwene's hand, looking up at her with adoration. "Sansa saved me."

"What happened to your husband?"

"We fed him to his own hounds," the Wulf Kwene answered, a cold smile curling up her lips, even as she lifted her and Jeyne's entwined hands to cover them with her free one. "We didn't bother to kill him first." She stared down at him and he stared back, steadily holding her gaze, resisting the urge to swallow.

Finally, he looked away and picked up his bowl of porridge. "I guess he had that coming," he shrugged.

The women laughed and Jeyne remarked: "No words have ever been more true."

Jon bowed his head and started shovellig porridge into his mouth. 

"You were right before, Fergesman," the queen broke the silence. "I have not been extending you the proper courtesies owed to you as my guest. I'll have to make some arrangements, but starting from tomorrow, you'll have freedom of the castle."

"Thank you, Knaler Kwene," he answered without taking his eyes off his food.

After they had left the room, he put his bowl down to stare at the door, wondering what that interesting display had been all about. And then it hit him, he'd forgotten to ask a very important question: _How did Sansa save you?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lexicon
> 
> Karheld: Karhold  
Kening: King


	4. Sansa

Sansa entered the Goaderwald, closing her eyes to enjoy the silence and the sweet, thick air around her as her feet led her down the familiar path she'd walked a thousand times before. 

When she arrived at the Hertbom, she put her basket down on the flat rock next to the pool and placed her mag beside it. She unlaced her boots, toed them off and untied her gown, shrugging out of it before she pulled her shift over her head, and neatly folded them and put them down on the rock as well.

The crisp air kissed her naked skin and the wind caressed her body. She closed her eyes and smiled.

Lastly, she pulled down her hose and unraveled her braid, and then she reached for her mag with her right hand. She could already feel the tension disappear from her neck, shoulders and limbs. Worship always relaxed her. Sansa loved the ritual and routine of it, the way it soothed her body and mind.

If only her heart were as easy to please. She rolled her shoulders back and took a deep breath, turning left to walk in a circle around the rock and the Hertbom, dragging her mag over the ground beside her to secure her place of worship.

As soon as she closed the circle she could feel the warm tingle at the base of her spine. The air was charged with energy and the Aerder were present. 

Never leaving the circle, she opened her basket and started building her alter. At the based of the Hertbom, nestled between its mighty roots was a log cut from an old oak. It had been adorned with the runar of her foralders and tempered in all the elements.

She kneeled and covered it with a swath of many-coloured silk she'd embroidered herself and placed four bowls on it. She filled the green one, with salt. In the second, yellow bowl, she placed two feathers, a black one from a raven, and a white one from a dove. In the red bowl, she lit a candle, and finally she filled the blue cup with water.

She pressed her left hand against the bark of the Hertbom, collecting its red, sticky sap, and touched her fingers to her forehead, her heart and her maidenhair.

Then she opened her arms and sang in the Old Tongue.

_I, Sansa of House Stark, come before you to pledge myself to you,_  
_to renew the vows I made on the day I was chosen._  
_ I thank you for the power you gave me as Kwene and Hegeprystess_  
_ For the strength of the wolf inside me and the blessing of the moon._  
_ To you I pledge the faith of Winterfell and Noarlan_  
_ Our hearts and hearths we yield up to you_  
_ The blessings you grant us, we shall share with you._  
_I swear to serve the land and protect its people_  
_As their mother and to guide them wisely,_  
_ And never bring harm to them._  
_ I swear it by the sun and the moon_  
_I swear it by earth and water_  
_I swear it by rain and wind_  
_ By the rock and the river, the tree and the ear_  
_ I swear it by bronze and iron_  
_ I swear it by ice and fire._

She closed her arms, pressing her palms together and bowed her head. 

Then she unwrapped a cloth package, revealing four honeycakes. She thanked the Goader for the blessing of food and ate one of the cakes, chewing slowly and savouring the flavour and texture of it on her tongue. She crumbled the remaining cakes between the roots of the tree, offering them to the Goader with her right hand.

After that, she poured a cup of mede, again expressing her gratitude before taking a long sip, and offered the rest of the liquid to the Hertbom.

She reached for her rytinger and sliced opened her right palm. She made a fist and squeezed, watching as bright red droplets splattered onto the dirt and the white roots of the Hertbom.

"I offer you the blood of the wolf, the blood of the blessed," she chanted. "In return I ask you to offer me guidance and wisdom, patience and strength. Grant me the blessings I was promised, your most devout and faithful servant."

The leaves of the Hertbom whispered to her, and she smiled, knowing the Goader had heard her prayers. She could feel their presence all around her, but then, as she placed her rytinger back down on her alter, she felt something else: a pair of curious eyes on her.

She took her time before rising to her feet again and opening the circle again, and all the while he kept watching her.

Finally, she turned to the fir where he was hiding from her and said: "I know you're there, Fergesman."

She stood there waiting for a couple of moments, until Jon reluctantly emerged from behind his tree, a scowl on his face and his ears a bright red.

"I didn't mean to spy on you," he muttered, keeping his eyes on the ground. "But I heard you singing, and I couldn't help myself, I- I was curious."

"Curious to see if I was sacrificing innocent babes to my Goader? To find out if I looked like the monstrous hekse you believed me to be beneath my gown?"

Involuntarily his eyes flitted up, resting on her breasts and curves for just a moment too long before he averted them again.

She'd been naked before other people so many times it felt nothing but natural to her, but somehow having Jon's eyes on her was different.

Still, she told him: "It's not a sin to look, you know, and there's nothing shameful about the body the Goader have given me."

He licked his lips, risking another glance, but then looked away again.

"I didn't know the Fergermen were so prudish," she laughed, closing the distance between them.

He looked up to meet her eyes, that scowl returning. "I'm not a prude," he told her. "I've seen many naked women. It's just..." He clenched his fists. "It's not right to gawk at a woman unless she's yours, or unless she wants you to look at her."

_But I am yours, Jon, _a voice inside of her whispered. _And I do want you to look at me. I want- _she quickly stopped that train of thought. It wouldn't do to linger on her dreams and desires, when he still considered her his enemy.

"Do you always offer blood to your Goader?" he asked, nodding to her right hand.

"No," she answered. "Blood is a special gift, reserved for exceptional purposes."

He narrowed his eyes. "What was your exceptional purpose this time?"

_You, _she thought, but she only offered him a knowing smile, studying his dark grey eyes. They were of a height, which made it easy to hold his gaze, but soon she found it nearly impossible to tear her eyes away from him, and her lips parted of their own accord as her body started to lean in.

She tried to mask the involuntary behaviour of her body by examining the fresh scar over his eyebrow, and couldn't resist reaching out to brush her fingers over the lines. 

"Your wound is healing well," she whispered. She wanted to keep touching him, to trace the curve and angle of his cheek and jaw, feel the roughness of his beard under her fingertips and thread her fingers through those inky curls.

He licked his lips again and gulped, his throat bobbing up and down. She wished he would do it again, so she could press her tongue to it and feel the movement, suck on the skin there and nip at his collarbone. Imagining it sent a throb through her core.

She swallowed the whine that was buildling in her throat and pulled her hand back at the exact moment he jerked away from her touch, remembering himself.

She stared at their feet, toes still almost touching, wondering if she should apologize, but decided against it, not willing to alert him to what she'd just felt, but when she glanced down, she spotted proof that she was not the only one who seemed affected by their closeness, by touching and being touched. There was a visible bulge in his tight doeskin breeches.

"I'll get dressed then," she said brusquely, stepping away from him as she added: "before I make you even more... uncomfortable."

The panic of being caught flickered in his eyes as she turned around, and she had to bite her lip to suppress a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lexicon
> 
> mag: wand  
Aerder: spirits of nature  
alter: altar  
runar: runes  
foralders: ancestors  
mede: mead  
rytinger: dagger


	5. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon explores Winterfell and starts having a recurring dream *wink wink*

As promised by the Kwene, on his fourth day in Winterfell, Jon had been given freedom of the castle. A pair of guards followed him everywhere he went, at all hours of the day, and though they never stopped him nor questioned his choice to explore or return to a certain place, Jon had no doubts that they reported all of his movements back to the Kwene.

Two days into his second sennight, he had been moved from his towercell next to the guards hall to a room in the guesthouse. Though the Kwene seemed to be making good on all of her promises, Jon was loathe to let his guard down. 

He suspected she was trying to lull him into complacency with this show of friendly hospitality, the same way she was using her mask of sweet, feminine beauty to hide her true nature. 

The first couple of days, he'd kept to the yard outside the guards hall and armoury, venturing out into the outer bailey once or twice a day, pretending he was just wandering around for some fresh air. Once he was sure his guards wouldn't try to intervene, he started exploring other parts of Winterfell. 

After a sennight he'd learned the layout of the castle, and he had found himself surprised at the sheer size of it. The castle was surrounded by two curtain walls, the inner wall being higher than the outer one. Between these walls was a deep, wide moat, filled with water.

There were four gates, which all had gatehouses and a bridge connecting the two walls, all heavily guarded. The inner wall had two bell towers, one to the north-east, the other to the south-west.

Entering through the Noard Get, as Jon had done when he arrived, to the west side of the outer bailey were the Gles Tuner, to the east was a small walled yard where the entrance to the crypts could be found, a lichyard, and an old abandoned buildling which might have been the original keep.

Beyond the Gles Tuner, the Goaderwald, enclosed by another wall, took up a quarter to a third of the castle grounds. To the east, south of the dilapidated keep, was the entrance to the middle bailey, where the guest house, the guards hall and tower, the armoury, and the kitchens were located. 

Arriving at the castle from the south, one would have to pass through the winter town first to reach the Sud Get, which opened into he south-western part of the outer bailey which was mostly taken up by a half-roofed market place, where farmers, hunters and artisans could offer their goods.

Jon had been there on a market day, and had seen several traders offer trinkets, fruits or small parcels to maids, stable boys and kitchen staff. "For the Kwene," they'd add with a genuine smile on their faces. He'd huffed and turned away from those interactions. 

The bailey also held a well, and a fairly new hall designed to offer shelter to the smallfolk who sought refuge inside the castle walls in times of war and turmoil.

The southern half of the middle bailey contained the stables, the kennels, the castle smithy and the only ground-level entrance to the inner bailey, the heart of the castle, where the Gruter Hal, the Frouheld, the Mentorn and the bathhouse were located. 

All of these structures were built over natural hot springs, which provided hot water that was piped through the walls to heat the living quarters. 

So far, Jon hadn't discovered the right place to stage his escape. The curtain walls were impenetrable, their only weak spots heavily guarded. The inner wall alone held thirty watch turrets.

He had heard the telling of Bael the Bard, who had hidden in the crypts of Winterfell and escaped through a tunnel. There were rumoured to be more of these tunnels, even inside the walls, and he imagined there would be an entrance in the inner bailey as well, in case the castle should fall and the Kwene and her family needed to be brought to safety. 

But for all Jon knew, these tunnels might be nothing more than old wives' tellings, and even if they existed, he might spend his entire life looking for them. 

His best chance was probably the Goaderwald. It should be easy to hide out in three acres of dense, ancient forest. Perhaps he could even find a weak spot in the curtain wall, or a good spot to scale it without being seen. 

He had been in the castle for over a fortnight now, and the guards would sometimes leave him alone for hours on end. Somehow they always managed to find him, which had made him suspect he was always being watched, whether he was aware of it or not, another point in favour of finding his way out of the castle in the Goaderwald.

The first time he'd entered the Goaderwald, he was not alone, and the guards didn't seem keen on leaving him alone, not even when Jon offhandedly reminded them the cooks were making venison stew that day. In fact his comment seemed to have raised their suspicions, which made him more confident to see his plan through.

On the second day, he'd had more luck, he'd been alone, and there had not been a soul in sight. He had ventured deep into the Goaderwald, and then he'd seen her, wearing nothing but her long red hair, and of course, she'd known he was watching her.

After seeing her like that, Jon knew for certain that Sansa Stark wast the most beautiful woman in the world, and what was infinitely more terrible, that he wanted her more than he'd ever wanted any other woman.

He couldn't understand why his body had reacted to her the way it had. At times he wondered if she'd put a spell on him, but he couldn't figure out why she would do that. Was this the way she'd decided to torture him before killing him?

He had no doubt that she knew. She'd been aware of the effect her naked body had had on him. And the way she'd looked at him and touched his brow! At one point he'd been half-convinced she wanted him as well, but of course that couldn't be true.

The worst part of it was easily the dream he'd had every single night since that wretched day in the Goaderwald. It haunted him and kept him up at night, and his thoughts kept wandering to it throughout the day. He could hardly look her in the eye when he saw her, which seemed to be more often than before now.

The dream would start with him kneeling in front of the Hertbom, which was not unusual. The Fergermen's Goader also resided in Werewalds, though they were not half as cruel as the ones the Sudligers worshipped.

Then he'd reach out to touch the face carved into the bark, which he would never do when awake, and he'd realize he was naked. As soon as he pushed himself to his feet and turned around, she would appear in the clearing.

He stood there frozen, watching her, naked as her nameday, her red hair shining like copper, long and loose, as it had been that day, and her alabaster skin glowing in the unusually bright moonlight.

His eyes drank in her perfectly round rose-tipped breasts, the dip and flare of her waist and hips, the long, soft curves of her body, the red hair at the juncture of her thighs, and he'd lick his lips, unable to look away.

She'd take his hand then, and at her touch, he sank to the forest floor. She put her foot on his chest, pushing him to his back. She'd stand there looking at him, and he could feel himself getting hard, his body growing taut with arousal under her gaze.

He would beg her to take him then, and she'd smile down at him. The next moment she'd be standing over him, her feet braced on either side of his shoulders, and then, slowly, she'd lower herself onto his face, as if it were her Troan.

"Perhaps your tongue knows a better way to convince me," she suggested, and he was happy and eager to gratify her wish, lapping at her sweet, wet cunt until she was grinding it into his face and her pleasure soaked his beard.

She'd move down his body then, dragging her slippery folds over the length of his leaking cock until he was begging for her to fuck him again. 

She welcomed him into her hot, wet cunt then, and she was so tight his eyes almost rolled back into his head. She bounced up and down on his cock, moaning his name as she allowed him to put his hands on her breasts, telling him how good he felt.

She'd ride him so wildly and her cunt squeezed him so deliciously that it never took long for his climax to approach. She'd clench down on him, starting to milk his release from his cock, and then he'd wake up, hard and aching, her cursed, wicked name on his lips. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lexicon
> 
> Noard Get: North Gate  
Gles Tuner: Glass Gardens  
Sud Get: South Gate  
Gruter Hal: Great Hall  
Frouheld: Women's Keep  
Mentorn: Men's Tower  
Werewald: Weirwood


	6. Sansa

The raven had only arrived a couple of days ago. Daeda's scroll had said that he'd sent another when they left Flodfaste, but that it must have gotten lost. Sansa didn't like that, ravens rarely failed to reach their destination, and if they did, it usually meant they had been intercepted.

Apart from announcing the start of their journey, there hadn't been any important information in Colin's first scroll, which was a blessing, as it meant they'd learned they had to be careful without losing or risking anything over it. 

It had been three years since she'd last seen her father and siblings. Bran had been six, and Arya only three. If Sansa failed to bear a child of her own, the girl would become the next Kwene of Noarlan one day. 

Around midday Sansa received a messages from the guard towers that a travelling party was approaching on the Herwei, so she sent out orders to assemble the household in the courtyard of the middle bailey in order to greet their former Herra and the Kwene's sister and brother. 

Seeing her father was a surprise. She'd grown taller than him soon after her fourteenth nameday, and yet she remembered him as he'd been when she was a little girl: bigger, taller, burlier.

He was still broad-shouldered and he'd kept his hair and beard in the Noarliger style, instead of short and clean-shaven, as most Sudligers. It made her smile.

His arms still felt strong and warm and loving when he embraced her. "You're even more beautiful than the day I left. The people of Noarlan talked about you wherever we stopped. They all love you, Sansa."

"I've missed you, Daeda," she whispered.

"I've missed you, too, bern."

She smiled into the furs around his neck, releasing him to greet her brother and sister. 

Bran was much the same as he had been, just taller and skinnier, though both his face and his hair had grown a little longer. 

"You're so tall, Bran," she told him. "You're almost a man now!"

He grinned, stretching himself to his full length, and saying: "Onkel Brynden also said that, and he says I'll have big muscles when I grow up!" He proudly flexed his arms to prove their uncle's words.

"Hey!" a tiny girl with dark hair that looked as if a bird had been nesting in it piped up, shoving Bran aside. "I'm also tall, and my muscles will be even bigger than yours!"

Looking at her face almost broke Sansa's heart. Arya's round, chubby babyish features were almost gone, melting away to reveal the long solemn Stark face. The colour of her eyes was not the dark, glittering steel Jon and Lyanna had shared, but the bright grey of a clear winter sky. It was the colour of their mother's eyes. 

The girl caught her staring and asked: "Are you the Kwene? Where is your kroan?"

Sansa laughed. "It's heavy. So I don't wear it all the time, but I can show you, if you like?"

She nodded eagerly. "Do you have a sword?"

"Nei," Sansa answered, catching their father frowning down at her sister. "Just a mag and a rytinger."

Arya made a face. "Where's the Hertbom?"

A young woman in a wimple stepped forward and took the little girl by the hand. "That's enough, Frou Arya," she hissed.

The woman led the children away and Sansa glared at her father. "You hired a septa?"

"We'll talk later," he sighed.

She held his gaze for a long moment and nodded. 

"Will you be alright, being back here?" she asked him as she walked him back to his old chambers in the Mentorn, Meister Luwin following behind him.

"I have the little ones," he answered. "And I have you. We'll visit the crypt after we get everyone sorted out."

Sansa nodded. When they arrived in the solar, the fire in the hearth was blazing, and a flagon of wine was waiting on the table.

She poured three cups of the wine and told Luwin: "Join us, meister."

The old man bowed his head and sat down, taking his goblet.

"How's Moike Edwyna?" Sansa asked, taking a sip of Dornish red, her father's favourite, so the men could also drink if they wished.

Her father frowned. "She's well, doing things her own way, as she always has."

She inclined her head. "And how are the children?"

A smile lit up his face, fine lines appearing around his clear blue eyes. "Bran still loves to climb, but he's sweet as ever. It's a good thing they have each other, I suppose. But Arya..."

So she had not imagined that look of concern out in the yard. "What about her?"

"Arya," he started, taking a sip of wine and a deep breath. "Arya is a challenge. I've tried to teach her what I know, but I'm not of Noarlan, and I'm not a Stark."

That claim was ridiculous. He'd been married to a Stark for twenty years, and had spent half his life in Winterfell, but Sansa decided to let it go for now. "Is she gifted?"

He smiled again, shaking his head. "She has the wolf's blood, I'm sure of it."

"And Bran?" Meister Luwin asked.

"Ja, and I think Bran has the Syn."

Sansa put her own cup to her lips, frowning.

"An unusal gift for a boy," the Meister pointed out. It was true, it must have been at least a couple of hundreds of years ago since a boy with the Syn had been born. They'd have to discuss this at the Garkoming.

"Indeed, he's unusual," her father mused. "And so is Arya."

"How so?" she asked.

Colin stared into his wine cup. "She's shown no interest in the tradyshe en faerdiger, no proclivity for it either."

Sansa ran her thumb over the rim of her goblet, biting her lip. "She's young."

"_Leave_," Daeda answered. "Edda always used to say you were a Wize at three."

Sansa felt a pang at the mention of her mother's name. The other inhabitants of Winterfell rarely used it when they were referring to their previous Kwene.

She'd heard that compliment many times over the years, and it had always filled her with pride, made her a little smug even. She'd worked hard to learn the tradyshe en faerdiger of her people, but it was true it had always come natural to her.

Ever since she'd become Kwene, it had only made her doubt herself. She was never sure she could live up to the expectations people had of her. 

She looked her father in the eyes. "It's not fair to compare us."

"True," he conceded, and after a short pause he added: "But you're still without an heir."

She pushed herself to her feet and walked away from the table. "Not for lack of trying."

She took a deep breath and turned back to the table to see that Colin had closed his eyes and was pinching the bridge of his nose. "I only meant she might succeed you one day, with you and your mother as examples to live up to."

_Not if I can help it. _If it was true that Arya didn't want this, that she wasn't made for this, surely the Goader must have another purpose in mind for her.

When she was younger, Sansa would have agreed with her father, but doing her duty, doing what was expected of her, even willingly, had brought her so much pain. She couldn't ask that of her sister, who hadn't been born for this, even if she understood her father's concerns.

"You worry too much," she told him. 

"I'm her only parent," he answered, a fierce look in his eyes. "Who will worry about her if I don't?"

She took another step to the table to cover her father's hand with her own and squeezed it. "I know."

"The point is," he sighed, "we'll have to start training her, soon, but what she needs most of all is a woman's guidance."

"I could make some arrangements," Meister Luwin suggested. "The Mormonts have a girl of the same age, if I remember correctly."

"Good idea, meister," Sansa told him. We'll discuss it later."

Colin took a long swig from his cup of wine. "I asked Edwyna for help, but you know she's not the motherly type, she doesn't have the patience. Hence the Septa."

Sansa pulled her hand away. She understood, but she had to be firm about this. "She can't stay."

"Trust me, bern, I don't believe she wants to."

"Good." She sat down and took another sip of wine. "What is she like, Arya?"

"Half a boy and half a wolfpup," her father laughed. "She wants to be a riddar when she grows up, or kapten of the guard."

Sansa shook her head. "You let her spend too much time with the Swartfisk."

"Perhaps," he chuckled. "You are your mother's daughter, Sansa, but Arya has much of your Moike Lya in her."

_And of you, _she thought, but decided to hold her tongue. "Moike Lyanna was an accomplished Wize."

"She came close to never having a chance to become one."

Meister Luwin threw her a look, raising his eyebrows. Sansa averted her eyes. She knew she would have to tell her father, but she'd been hoping to avoid the subject just a little longer.

"Daeda," she began, and she could tell by her father's eyes he'd noticed the change in her tone. "There's something we need to tell you."

She picked at the sleeve of her gown and took a deep breath. "We found Jon."

Colin clenched his jaw. "Is he in Winterfell?"

She nodded.

His nostrils flared. "It's not safe for him to be here, for you, for your brother and sister. Cersei Lannister is still Kwene, and they say her daughter Loraena is even more ruthless."

She ignored him. "He doesn't remember his time here."

"He wouldn't," he shrugged. "Your Mem and Moike made sure of that."

She'd suspected as much and Meister Luwin had confirmed it.

"I think he hates me, Daeda," she blurted out.

"He's a fool, if that's true." The fierceness in his eyes had returned, seeping into his voice as well. A smile pulled up her lips.

"He hasn't had his skova yet."

Surprise flashed in his eyes. "So it worked?"

"What worked?" she asked, reaching for his hand again.

"They bound his powers," he explained. "For his own safety."

She exchanged looks with Meister Luwin. "Is that possible?"

"In theory, it is," Luwin said slowly. "But it would be complicated and dangerous."

"Edda and Lya found a way."

"But how do we _un_bind his powers?" Sansa wondered aloud.

"I'm sorry, _leave_, I don't know." He studied her face. "Why would you want to do that?"

She averted her eyes. "I saw it. I saw him, in the Wulvanwald."

When she met his gaze again, Colin arched an eyebrow.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. "I saw us, Daeda, together."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Herwei: literally army road, canon Westeros' Kingsroad  
Noarliger: Northern, Northerner  
bern: child  
nei: no  
Onkel: Uncle  
Syn: Sight  
Garkoming: gathering  
leave: (my) dear, sweetling  
Wize: witch, wise person  
riddar: knight  
kapten: captain  
Swartfisk: Blackfish  
skova: change, transformation


	7. Jon

Jon had been meticulously planning his visits to the Goaderwald. He tried to go there every day, but always at different times of the day, sometimes only for half an hour, but whenever he could, he tried to stay for a couple of hours, or as long as he needed to explore a new part of the wall. 

He'd discovered Sansa usually visited the Goaderwald at sunrise or sunset, though there had been exceptions to that rule. At least it offered him a clue as to how he could avoid her. 

It was close to midday, and his guards were nowhere in sight, a perfect opportunity for him to head back there again. It was a nice day to be out in the woods. It wasn't raining, but the air was fresh and crisp and the sun was shining down through the leaves of the trees.

He took a path that led him far from the Hertbom, but after a ten-minute walk, he heard singing. It was unmistakable to him who must be there on the other side of a small grove of firs. He'd recognize that voice anywhere by now.

He muttered a curse under his breath and slipped into a gap between a boulder and a thorny bush, crouching down. As soon as he found himself sitting there, he felt rather ridiculous, hiding away from Sansa Stark, again. What kind of a craven was he, afraid of a woman he was supposed to hate, just because his blush or stammer might give away the foul desires he felt for her?

He almost punched his fist into the boulder out of frustration, but managed to control himself. Instead he rose to his feet again and ran away. It wasn't much better than hiding, but at least he was doing something, and it was harder to think about it this way.

He needed to get a sword in his hands again soon, or he might burst from all the tension that was holding his body in its grip.

When he'd put enough distance between him and the Kwene, he slowed down to a brisk walk, turning north to stay on the right track and find his destination. 

He'd started his inspection at the northernmost edge of the Goaderwald, where it bordered on the Gles Tuner, slowly making his way down the western wall. He'd finally found a place where he thought he'd be able to climb all the way up.

He'd made it halfway there the day before, but the guards had come looking for him, and he'd hurt his shoulder jumping down the last ten feet in his hurry to get back on the ground.

He was determined to get all the way to the top today. It was different than scaling the Mur, where he'd had tools and help. Here he only had his own hands and feet and the strength of his muscles. 

There was an oak which was easier to climb than the lower parts of the wall, with a sturdy branch that led directly to an easy accessible strip of that same wall.

He'd covered about thirty feet when he suddenly heard the voice of a child. "You're doing it wrong, you know."

Instinctively his head jerked up, his grip tightening. Sitting on a wooden beam sticking out of the wall another five feet above him, swinging his legs back and forth as he took bites out of a green apple, was a boy of about ten years old with chin-length reddish hair and striking blue eyes. 

"Am I?" he scoffed.

The boy chewed on a piece of apple and nodded. "I can show you how to do it properly if you want."

"Alright then," Jon chuckled.

The boy tossed the core of his apple away and swung down from his seat with an agility Jon had not expected. Sooner than he could have imagined, he had reached the spot right next to him and was holding out his hand.

"I'm Brandon Stark, but you can call me Bran."

Jon shook his hand. "Jon Sno," he said.

"I know," Bran answered.

Jon decided to ignore that. 

The boy showed him how he positioned his feet, how he easily managed to pull himself up and how he chose the right place to put his hands. Jon had to agree that he could still teach him a thing or two.

About fifty-five feet up, Bran guided him to a hidden alcove in the wall where they both sat down to catch their breaths.

Bran offered him one of his apples, and Jon accepted it gracefully. The climbing had made him thirsty.

"Brandon Stark, huh?" The Kwene must be about Jon's age, she was probably too young to have a ten-year-old son, but he decided to ask Bran anyway. "Is Sansa Stark your mother?"

The boy laughed. "No, she's my sister."

"Do you have any other siblings?" 

"I had a brother. But he died before I was born," Bran shrugged. "And I have a younger sister."

Sansa Stark's little brother, Jon mused. A weakness he could use against her if he was desperate enough. Could he do that? Could he be cruel enough to scare and threaten a child?

Even if he could, they'd probably kill him before he made it to a safe place. Any plan that attracted too much attention would surely fail.

"What are you doing up here" Jon asked the boy, "climbing walls all by yourself?" 

He shrugged, but Jon didn't miss his little hand coming up to furiously wipe away a tear. "My sister is going out to the Wulvanwald tomorrow night. I asked her if I could come with her, but she said no."

Jon didn't have to ask which sister he was talking about. "What is she going to do in the in the Wulvanwald?" 

Bran's answer was another aggressive shrug, but after a short pause he added: "Something to do with the Follmoane. She said I'm too young, that I'll understand when I'm older, but that it wouldn't be safe for me right now."

Jon tried not to smile at the boy's childish qualms, but before he could offer a distraction or a word of comfort, he continued his complaint.

"She's taking a dozen guards with her. We wouldn't really be in danger with all of them there, would we?"

"She must have her reasons," was the only reply Jon could think of. "She's only trying to keep you safe." But from what?

He'd very much like to know why Sansa Stark was taking a dozen guards to the Wulvanwald on the night of the Follmoane, but it was clear her sulking little brother wouldn't be of any further help in solving that mystery.

They finished their apples and continued their climb. Jon hauled himself up on top of the wall, letting Bran go first. The boy walked to the other edge and sat down to watch a pair of ravens fight over an egg.

Jon followed him, crouching down and looking down into a wide moat filled with long, sharp-looking spikes and rocks with harsh edges.

The outside of the wall looked much smoother than the side he'd climbed, except for more spikes sticking out at different lengths, spread close enough to make maneuvering between them nearly impossible. The inside of the outer wall was much the same.

Jon sighed as he sank down in his spot, desperately looking for a way to get to the other side, but he could see none. This was the end of his plan, his best chance. 

When he looked up from the moat, Bran was staring at him. As their eyes met, the boy smirked.

Jon tried not to flinch. Had he known what Jon was trying to do? Had the Kwene figured out his plan and was she now using an innocent child--her own brother--against him?

"I told you I know who you are," the boy said, as if he was reading his mind. "I know what you're trying to do."

"How?"

"I'm not stupid. And you're not exactly subtle."

Jon balled his fists; but before he could answer or chide himself for being outsmarted by a child, there came a cry from far below on the inner side of the wall. "Bran!"

As they looked down, a small face peeked out from the foliage of the same tree Jon had climbed.

The little girl was younger than Bran. She had dark hair that looked as if a bird had been nesting in it, a longish face and big grey eyes. For some reason, she looked familiar to Jon.

"Who's that?" Jon asked Bran.

"That's my other sister, Arya."

Jon frowned. "She doesn't look anything like- like you."

"No, she looks like you," Bran answered.

Jon stared back at him.

"Bran!" they heard again from far below. Arya was now perched on a branch that looked far too thin to carry even her slight weight. 

"Bran!" she repeated. "Daeda said no climbing!"

Daeda? He hadn't been aware there was still a father around, but he'd never heard of the children before today either. 

Bran crossed his arms, staring down at his sister. "What are you going to do?" He asked, that earlier smirk returning now. "Tell him?"

Arya chewed her lip and glanced down, a glare on her face when she looked up again. "No," she pouted.

"Didn't think so," Bran laughed.

"Help me up?" Arya now asked instead.

"Nei!" Bran shouted down. "You're too small! Your arms aren't strong enough!"

"I'll help you," Jon offered.

Arya looked at him as if she hadn't noticed him before. "Who are _you_?" she demanded to know.

"I'm Jon."

Her eyes widened. "You're the Fergesman!" she exclaimed.

"Ja."

"Is it true you drink blood from the skulls of your enemies?"

Jon blinked and scrunched his nose. "No."

"Oh." She seemed disappointed. Jon had to laugh.

"Hurry down here then, Jon!" she told him. "I don’t have all day!"

He exchanged a look with Bran and they both chuckled. He pushed himself to the other side of the wall and lowered himself to go and get the little girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lexicon
> 
> Mur: the Wall


	8. Sansa

Sansa sat cross-legged in front of the Hertbom, watching as Arya carefully arranged her bowls on the alter. 

"That's perfect! What's the green bowl for?" 

"Salt or dirt!" her little sister answered proudly.

Sansa nodded. "There's a small bag of salt in there," she said, pointing to her basket. "Can you find it for me?"

Arya found the bag, fiddled with the strings, but managed to open it and pour most of the salt into the bowl.

"Well done! What about the yellow one?"

"Water?" Arya squinted, chewing her lip as her fingers picked at a scab on her knee.

She tilted her head. "Are you sure?"

Her little sister shrugged in response.

Sansa put two feathers in the bowl. "Why feathers?" she asked

"For air?"

"That's right. Do you know what should go in the red bowl?"

"A candle!" She collected it from the basket and put it in the bowl. She returned to the basket, rummaging through it and exclaimed: "You forgot a tinder pouch!"

"I didn't forget," Sansa said with a smile. "I don't need one." She leaned down and softly blew on the candle wick, until a tiny flame appeared.

Arya gasped. "How did you do that?"

Sansa grinned at her. "Heksery."

"Can you teach me?"

"Maybe?"

"Sansa! Please!" she begged, her big grey eyes growing wider.

"It takes time to learn something like that," she explained. "But if you work hard and pay attention, I think you could do it!"

"I can!" she whispered, sitting on her hands and knees to study the candle. "I promise."

Sansa poured water into the last bowl and collected the red sap from the tree bark with her fingers, instructing Arya to do the same. 

"Can you feel the Aerder around us?" she asked her sister.

Arya's lips parted, her eyes narrowing in concentration. "How?"

"Can you tell that the air is a little warmer than before? Or can you feel a tingle in your skull, or running down your spine?"

Her face scrunched up in confusion.

"Can you hear voices on the wind, in the rustling of the leaves?"

"I think so?"

Perhaps their father was right. Maybe Arya wasn't gifted enough to become a Wize. But she was still young. It was not completely unusual for children to receive their gifts at a later age. They wouldn't know for sure if she was a Wulf for about six more years, but Sansa agreed with their father that she most likely was.

Tomorrow she'd try to use the power of the Follmoane to contact the Ferskesaengers through the Hertbom. She wanted to ask them for their wisdom regarding her own situation, and Jon, but perhaps they could offer her some reassurance about Arya as well.

She smiled down at her sister. "Is there something you want to say to the Goader?" 

"What do I tell them?" Arya asked, staring at the Hertbom's face.

"You can thank them for giving you food and a home. Or you could tell them about something that happened to you, or even ask them for a blessing or a gift."

Arya was chewing her lip again. "Thank you for apple cakes," she started. "But please tell Septa Ireyne that I don't like porridge."

Sansa looked down at her lap, trying not to chuckle.

"Please make my muscles big and strong so Jon doesn't have to help me climb the walls anymore."

Sansa's head jerked up. "What did you say?"

Arya threw her a furtive glance and ducked her head, muttering: "Nothing."

"Arya?"

She kept staring at the ground.

"I promise I won't be cross, but I want you to tell me," Sansa said gently.

Tears rolled down her cheeks as she looked up. "It was Jon and Bran who did it first!" she cried. "Daeda said "no climbing" but they climbed all the way up to the top of the wall." She pointed north. 

So that was where her brother had run off to after she'd told him he couldn't come with her to the Wulvanwald. Father had told her he still loved to climb. She suspected Jon had had his own reasons to explore the walls. The guards had told her he'd been spending a lot of time there.

"I asked them to help me," Arya continued. Her tears had stopped falling. "Bran wouldn't do it, so Jon had to, Sansa, I swear it, I made him do it!"

She seemed to have changed her mind about blaming Jon rather quickly. Sansa couldn't decide whether that was endearing or concerning. Perhaps both.

"Is Jon your friend?"

She nodded, rubbing her nose.

Daeda had warned her Arya had a habit of befriending just about anyone she met. 

"Are you going to punish him?" she asked

"No," she sighed, even though Arya couldn't understand the true nature of Jon's transgression. 

_No, until I can make him see, there's no use in trying to discourage his plans. But I should probably talk to him about enabling my siblings to engage in dangerous activities such as climbing walls. _

"Are you going to tell Daeda?" Arya piped up.

"You know I should," Sansa answered as sternly as she could manage.

"Please, Sansa, please, I'll be good."

Sansa wrung her hands together. "Alright then," she said slowly. "But just this once!" 

Arya grinned at her.

"And no more climbing! If you catch Bran doing it again, or _Jon, _you come straight to me, understand?"

She nodded. "I promise."

"Careful now," Sansa warned her. "The Goader can hear you."

She glanced at the Hertbom's face. "I promise," she repeated.

"Come here," Sansa offered, opening her arms so her sister could embrace her. She held the girl for a couple of moments and whispered: "Now comes the fun part. You can go and unpack that little parcel in the corner of the basket now."

She freed herself from Sansa's arms and did so quickly, exclaiming: "Apple cakes!"

Sansa joined in on her happy laughter. They ate the apple cakes and finished their prayers, and then they walked back to the keep. 

When Sansa had returned to her room, she gathered more supplies she'd need later that night and sent one of her maids down to the stables to put them in her saddlebags. 

On her way out again, she walked past Jeyne's room. She'd seen her friend during meals and out in the yard, one time even in the market place, but it had been a while since they'd actually had a conversation that lasted longer than a couple of minutes. 

She knocked on the door and waited for Jeyne to call her in. She was sitting down near the window, embroidering flowers onto a day dress. She glanced up at Sansa and offered her a brief smile. 

"Just trying to catch the last light to get this done," she muttered as Sansa took the seat next to her. With three of her fingers gone, Jeyne wasn't as deft as she'd been before, but she'd always been good with a needle, and she still was.

"Did you finish your gown for the Garkoming yet?" Sansa asked. 

"Not yet."

"I could help you."

"Sure," Jeyne mumbled, keeping her eyes on her needlework.

"Unless you'd rather do it by yourself," Sansa offered. "But I thought it could be fun. It's been a while since we spent time together."

Jeyne didn't answer her. Perhaps it was best to be direct then. "Have you been avoiding me?" she asked.

"Of course I'm not avoiding you," she scoffed. "You've been busy.'

"I'm always busy," she pointed out. "That's never been an issue before."

Again, Jeyne remained silent. Sansa reached for her hand.

"Jeyne, please talk to me?"

She put her needlework aside and sighed, staring down at her lap as she fiddled with her thumbs. "I'm just trying to guard my heart, Sansa," she said after a short silence.

Sansa shook her head. "I don't understand."

She glanced up at the ceiling and licked her lips, taking another deep breath before meeting Sansa's eyes and saying: "When we were children, you and Jon were joined at the hip. You used to be together all the time. And I was jealous of that, of him."

Sansa had never known that. "Oh, Jeyne, I--

Her friend held up a hand. "Please, let me finish. I don't think I'll ever have the courage to say it again if you don't allow me to do it now."

She took a deep breath, averting her eyes again. "Part of me was glad when they sent him away. Of course, I felt for you. I could tell how sad it made you. I had to listen to you crying yourself to sleep at night over it for a while. But part of me was pleased that I finally had you all to myself."

"Oh Jeyne," Sansa repeated, not sure how to respond to that confession.

"And now that he's back," she sighed, staring at the door, " I'm scared, Sansa. Scared of losing you again. So instead of telling you how silly and selfish I am, I tried to stay away from you."

"I don't think you're silly or selfish at all, Jeyne," she whispered, though she did feel Jeyne's fear was rather absurd. 

She looked up at her, shaking her head. "You're my only friend, Sansa. I can't lose you."

Sansa took her hands in her own. "I am Kwene, I don't have any friends, Jeyne. Only you. You've been my friend for as long as I can remember. Nothing is going to change that. Not even Jon."

Jeyne looked at their joined hands, the corner of her mouth slightly curling up. "Promise?"

"Promise," Sansa answered, almost feeling like a little girl again. She released Jeyne's hands to pull her into a tight embrace, holding her close until she felt her starting to retreat.

"I'm sorry," Jeyne muttered, wiping a tear away.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, friend," Sansa answered with a smile. 

Jeyne glanced out the window. "We'll have to leave soon."

Sansa nodded. It was close to nightfall, the guards would be waiting for them. "I just need to get my cloak."

She'd talk to Jon on the morrrow. He'd already given her enough to worry about today, and he was probably at least partly responsible for the slight headache she could feel throbbing at her temples.

Tonight she'd go out to the Wulvanwald to run and howl at the Moane, and feel free again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lexicon
> 
> heksery: magic, witchcraft  
Wulf: wolf, werewolf  
Ferskesaengers: literally: songsingers = children of the forest  
Moane: moon
> 
> So... I'm running out of (half) finished chapters at this point. I'd also like to focus on some other fics this coming week, so it will probably take me about 10 days to finish the upcoming chapters and update this story!


	9. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> I'm back with a new chapter which is a little lengthier to make up for the longer wait :D
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy it!

Jon was in a foul mood when he woke up. He groaned as the world around him came back into focus, of half a mind to try to go back to sleep, not ready to face reality, but he felt too restless for that. 

He broke his fast, wolfing down the food they'd brought him, hardly noticing what he was eating, and for once not marvelling at the fact that he was being fed so regularly without having to work for it.

Once outside, the crisp air and light breeze improved his mood somewhat. Still, he wondered if he was going to have to accept that he was never going to get out of this place.

His thoughts went to Ygritte, Tormund and Val, to the others who'd been waiting for them to return with food and other resources, only to learn that most of them would never come back. It was a risk all of them had been willing to take, but it still hurt to remember how many lives had been lost that day. 

Jon knew they must all believe he'd been one of them, that none of them would even dare to hope he could still be alive. Ygritte might have, once, and Maglyn would if the fever hadn't killed her.

And if somehow one of them did find out he wasn't dead, would it change anything? None of them were mad enough to try to break or smuggle him out of Winterfell. He couldn't even hold it against them. He was lost to them, he wouldn't want them to risk their lives for him.

He wandered around the grounds, letting his feet lead him where they would. After a while he found himself at the entrance to the Goaderwald, but he huffed and shook his head, turning back around. After an hour or so, he ended up in the training yard, where some members of the Kwene's guard were sparring.

Or in fact, he realized as he came closer, most of them were watching a tall gaunt man duel a shorter, burlier one. Jon knew the shorter one as Baldwin. He'd been assigned to follow him around the castle for a while. 

He was stronger than the taller man, but the strength of his arm was no match for the other's agility and quick feet. 

Unsurprisingly, the tall man won an easy victory. Their audience applauded, and Jon joined in, drawing the attention of several pairs of curious eyes, including those of the gaunt man. 

He sheathed his sword and brushed his thin, tawny hair out of his face, spitting on the ground. "Wyldling bastard," he said by way of greeting.

Jon didn't know the man, and he had no beef with him, he was just a victim of ill luck and his bad mood, as normally it took more than a tame insult for Jon to be provoked, but apparently today was not a normal day. 

"Knaler," he answered, sizing up the group of men around him before facing the tall man. "You fought well. You think you can repeat that in a real fight?"

The man's hand flew to the pommel of his sword, but his face remained calm. "A real fight? Against you? Wyldlings fight like beasts!" he huffed. "No skill, no grace. I'm not interested."

"You think you can take me?"

He barked out a laugh, and the men around him joined in. 

Jon's hands curled into tight fists, but he took a deep breath to hide his rage before he retorted: "Why don't you prove it then? Unless you're scared I could beat you, Sudliger."

The man strode toward Jon, several of the other guards moving in to stop him, muttering: "Godrik!" and "He isn't worth it," and "The Kwene's orders!", but he shoved all of them aside until he was standing toe to toe with Jon and glaring down at him.

"Give the Wyldling a sword!"

The men exchanged nervous glances.

"I said: give him a sword!" Godrik roared, stepping away from him.

The blade was roughly shoved into Jon's hands by a gangly boy with straw-coloured hair. He gripped it tightly and twirled it in his fingers, testing the weight and feel of it. 

As the men around them cleared the space, Godrik advanced on him and Jon pivoted to take a defensive stance.

He let the man come at him, parrying his blows or dancing away from them, using his own tricks against him. He fought bolder and more rashly than before, until he realized he'd underestimated his adversary.

He no longer let his rage have the better of him, and instead of growing even sloppier, as Jon had expected, his moves became more cautious, more intent on drawing Jon out so he would make a mistake. It was admirable, but it didn't deter Jon. He didn't mind a little challenge.

Apart from the occasional shout to encourage Jon's rival, the people around them remained quiet, and the tension was palpable. 

Godrik was quick and skilled, but the pattern of his attacks and defences was predictable, and sooner or later, his pride would make him impatient.

It happened sooner rather than later. He attempted a maneuver, a diversion to steer Jon to the left, but it tipped him off balance and exposed his right side.

Jon advanced, moving his foot toward the man's instep and delivering a blow to his flank with the flat of his sword.

His mouth opened in a soundless scream and he scrambled for purchase, but Jon stood his ground, and when the other man tried to grab him, he leaned back, making him grasp at thin air. He tumbled to the ground and landed in the mud with a loud smack.

Jon's nostrils flared as he stood staring down at the Knaler, panting from the exertion. "How does it feel to be bested by a Wyldling beast, Sudliger?" he sneered.

As a couple of Godrik's friends advanced on him, he thought it had been worth it. He would never be able to take on all of them, but it was better to die in a fight than to be sacrificed in some barbaric Knaler ritual.

Before they reached him, a roaring voice filled the yard. "What's the meaning of this?"

Jon risked a quick glance at the newcomer, loath to keep his eyes off the men surrounding him. The man who'd entered the training yard was Jory Cassel, kapten of Sansa's guard.

Jory took one look at Jon and then at the man still lying in the mud. For one moment, Jon thought he saw the corner of his lips quirk up before his eyes grew hard.

"Drop that sword, Jon," the older man ordered him, and baffled that he knew his name and used it to address him, Jon quickly obeyed.

Jory then looked at the man who was being helped to his feet. "Latrine duty for you, Godrik. You should know better than this."

When a muddied Godrik had stormed off, he turned to the rest of the guards and bellowed: "I need a dozen volunteers for tonight's ride to the Wulvanwald!"

Surprisingly quickly, over a dozen hands were raised.

"Alright," Jory nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Off to the Goaderwald with you then, go and say your prayers!"

Jon had to clench his jaw to stop the laugh that threatened to burst from his throat. Jory's instruction had reminded him of what Bran had told him the day before, and he felt like a fool for not thinking of this earlier.

He kept his distance as he followed the volunteers, mindful not to draw any unwanted attention after the incident in the training yard.

Tonight, fifteen guards would join Sansa Stark on her ride to the Wulvanwald, and Jon would be one of them. 

***

Opening the gates seemed to take forever and every heartbeat lasted a lifetime. Any moment now, the Kwene or Jeyne would turn around and smile at him, telling the others to seize him.

Jon pulled his hood deeper down over his face, trying to appear relaxed, hiding the tension in his body and soothing his frantically beating heart. _This is madness, _he thought. 

He was close to shock when the gates were opened and nothing had happened, and he almost missed Sansa's command. He quickly dug his heels into his garron's flanks in order to keep up with the rest.

He closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of the wind in his hair. He wasn't truly free yet, but for now this was the closest he was going to get. 

He'd never be able to shake off the rest of the party out in the open field, but they were only a couple of miles away from the Wulvanwald where it would be easier for them to disappear.

He had no idea what they were going to do in the woods, or what would be expected of him. He was hoping he could just follow the other guards' examples and get away as quickly as possible. 

Soon they'd reached the edge of the Wulvanwald, and they all slowed down. The Kwene led them down a path that was wide enough for two men to ride abreast. 

Jon risked a glance at the man to his left, whose eyes seemed to be focused on the two women ahead of them. Were they in danger? Had he made a mistake by riding out with them?

After about half a mile, the path became narrower, and they were forced to ride in single file. Not knowing where they were going and what to expect was starting to make Jon nervous, but only two or three miles after entering the forest, they arrived at a clearing.

To the far side of the clearing stood a cottage and a Werewald that was smaller than the one at the heart of Winterfell's Goaderwald, and as the rest of the party slowed down, Jon realized they had reached their destination.

As they entered the clearing he felt a tingle run down his spine, and though it was windy and the sun had set by now, he could swear the air had grown warmer around him.

There was a fence to tie up the horses at the northern edge of the clearing, and after they'd been watered and fed, the others headed for the cottage. Jon followed them, feeling ever more confounded and uncomfortable. There was no way for him to get away without them noticing now.

The inside of the cottage consisted of one space, which was filled with several tables and chairs, a couple of sleeping pallets and a fireplace in the middle of the room.

The other men started unpacking some of the food they'd brought and lit some candles. The Kwene took off her dark cloak and Jon noticed she was wearing the same dress as he'd seen her in on his first day in Winterfell. 

She crossed the room to kneel by the fireplace and within moments bright flames were roaring and filling the room with their light and warmth.

Jon had stopped breathing. He had to force himself to stop staring at her. No one else in the room seemed perturbed by what she'd just done, but Jon's heart was still in his throat.

She'd told him it was true that she was a hekse and he'd seem her perform some strange ritual for her Goader, but this was different. He'd never seen anything like it before. 

She rose to her feet and addressed the people in the room, but he was still too dazed to make out any of the words she was saying. Before he came back to his senses, the men had all muttered something in response and she and Jeyne were leaving the cottage.

All around him, the men were settling down for the night and Jon was still standing there. He quickly pulled up a chair to the fire, pretending he was cold so he wouldn't have to take off his cloak. 

A couple of the men had retreated to the sleeping pallets, four of them had started a game of cards, at a second table another group was playing dice and a scattered few were quietly whittling or polishing their swords.

After about half an hour Jeyne returned without the Kwene. A bag was hanging from her right shoulder and in her arms she was carrying Sansa's gown and boots. 

A couple of the men acknowledged her with a nod and she put her things down near the door to pick up another bag and sat down close to the fire. 

Jon turned away from her, afraid she might catch a glimpse of his face. When he risked a glance at her, she was holding an embroidery hoop, the tip of her tongue sticking out between her lips in concentration. Not for the first time tonight he wondered what she was doing there.

What was more pressing though, was that he couldn't understand the lack of response to the Kwene not returning with the other woman. Where had they gone? What had they done there? And what was she doing out there in the woods at night, all by herself?

What were the rest of them doing back here? Were they going to stay here all night? What were they waiting for?

Jon was sure his confusion was going to drive him mad, as were the uncertainty and the endless waiting. He wondered if he was still going to get a chance to escape tonight.

After a while, a couple of the guards got up to go outside and make water. Jon decided to join them, if only to get some fresh air and some relief from doing absolutely nothing.

The Follmoane was huge above them and bathed the clearing in a soft yet surprisingly bright light. Off in the distance, a wolf was howling at it. 

As they reached the treeline, Jon fumbled with the lacings of his breeches and cursed. This might be his only chance.

"I can't do it with you two so close," he muttered in a voice that was rougher than his own.

One of the guards laughed, but the other warned him: "Don't wander off too far."

"I won't," Jon assured him.

He took off into the trees, keeping a leisurely pace until he felt a change in the air that inexplicably caused him to break into a run.

_You fool, _he thought to himself. It must have been his nerves getting to him. _Thrice-damned fool! _They must have heard him and the only reason they weren't following him yet, was surely because they'd gone back to alert the others.

All he could do was keep running, hoping he'd be able to shake them off once they started their pursuit and that he wouldn't trip or fall. 

The moon was lighting his path, so fortunately that wasn't as likely as was to be expected in a dark forest at night. His first goal was to put as much distance between himself and the Sudligers and then perhaps find a place to hide out during the day.

He was still far away from home, but at least he was free again, and he was going to try to keep it that way for as long as possible, or die in the attempt.

Suddenly the breath was knocked out of him and he found himself lying on the forest floor, his head spinning. It was what he deserved for thinking too much instead of watching his feet.

He pushed himself back to his feet and continued. Soon his muscles and lungs were burning, but he had to keep going, it was the only way.

Tree branches whipped and cut his face, he bumped into trees and bushes and stumbled over rocks and tree roots, but he kept going.

The exertion was starting to get to him, but it was not what stopped him. He could hear the sound of heavy paws on the forest floor, coming right at him. Whatever beast it was, it must be enormous.

He couldn't move on, he couldn't turn back, and instead of looking for another direction, his body froze, except for his wildly beating heart and his heavy panting. The blood rushing in his ears and pounding through his body was making it impossible to think or act.

When he saw the beast approaching, he squeezed his eyes shut, like a craven, or a child that wishes for a nightmare to go away. As he opened them again, he found himself staring into a pair of yellow eyes that belonged to a grey wolf that stood as tall as him.

The wolf started sniffing at him, curiously tilting its head, and suddenly he remembered how to move again. Perhaps it was stupid, but he whirled around and ran. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be posting twice a week, on Mondays and Thursdays, from now on, so I hopefully won't have to take another break from this one!


	10. Sansa

Sansa wasn't ready for this. She was tired, hungry and angry, and she could hardly make sense of all the emotions raging inside of her. But she knew if she didn't do this right now, she might never find the courage to do it. 

She wasn't even sure what she was going to do or say when she saw him, but she needed to do something after what had happened the night before. Her agitation was making her walk too fast for her liking, and her feet were carrying her too swiftly to the room in the guesthouse where Jon had been brought back to.

She'd been hunting when she found him, and to this moment she still didn't know how she'd been able to stop. She could have killed him. She would have never been able to forgive herself.

It had been his scent that had lured her away from the track she was following. She'd never smelled anything like it before. He didn't smell like prey, but still sweet and rich and pleasant. It had made her whine and she had found it impossible to ignore.

She'd chased after him when he had run from her, driving him back to the skyle. She'd kept an easy and steady pace until the skerme spell had started to slow her down.

And then Jon had hit an invisible wall, the force of the impact hurling him back until he crashed into her and they both toppled to the ground in a flurry of limbs and paws.

Instinctively, she'd nuzzled his chest, but seeing the fear in his eyes, another whine had escaped from her throat and she'd untangled herself, standing over him until Jeyne and the men had come running into the tree line.

Jon being stopped by Jeyne's spell, strengthened by generations of wizen before her who'd cast in it that very place was the only good news the night had brought her.

She came to a halt as she realized she'd reached her destination. She stared at the door and took a deep breath before pushing it open and walking in.

He was curled up in the window seat, staring out through the glass, but he must have heard her entering. She couldn't read his face when he turned to look at her. His hair was wild and tangled with leaves and twigs and blood was crusted on his brow and cheeks. 

She crossed the room to pick up a clean cloth from the pile on the low table against the wall and dip it in the bowl of water next to it. Without thinking, she walked over to him and reached out to dab away the blood onhis face.

He flinched and pulled away from her.

"You're hurt," she mumbled, her voice small and shaky to her own ears.

"Stay away from me!" he lashed out.

She lowered her head, taking a step back as she tried to ignore the sharp pang in her chest. It meant nothing. She needed to be mindful of his feelings. He still didn't know what she knew.

She risked another glance at him. His lip twitched, his nostrils flared, and Sansa snapped.

She raised herself to her full length. "Have you gone mad, Fergesman?" she snarled at him. "Running around in the Wulvanwald during a Follmoane?"

"How was I supposed to know there'd be giant wolves there?" he scoffed sharply.

_Only one last night, fortunately, _she thought. Now wouldn't be the right time to explain that to him.

"It's called the Wulvanwald, Jon!"

He muttered something unintelligible, glaring down at his knees.

_Stupid, stubborn man! _She wasn't sure what was coming over her. Part of her wanted to grab him and tell him how stupid he was, part of her wanted to straddle him and kiss him, and tear at those inky curls to make him hiss, in pain or in pleasure, she wasn't sure it mattered. 

She strode away from him, putting distance between them to stop that train of thought before she acted on it. She couldn't allow herself to behave like some rash fool, the way he had.

She whirled back around to face him, he was sitting up straight and glowering at her. 

"And do you think I didn't know about you helping my brother and sister climb the walls?"

"It was only one wall," he pointed out. "And actually Bran helped _me_."

"Don't use that tone with me!" she fumed. "They're children! You're a grown man! What were you thinking?"

That seemed to humble him. "I don't, I wasn't..."

"I bet you weren't!" she huffed. "Were you thinking when you knocked Dareth over the head with the hilt of his own sword?"

He had the audacity to ask: "Who?"

"The guard whose clothes and armour you stole! Do you realize how lucky you are he's still alive?"

"I didn't have a choice," he roared, rising to his feet. "It was the only way. I had to try to get out of here!"

"Oh, didn't you?" she asked softly, closing the distance between them. "That man has a wife and two children! Tell me, why is your life worth more than his?"

He stared at his feet, his sullen face reminding her so much of Arya she immediately felt her anger deflate, but it couldn't calm the storm inside of her. Again, she walked away from him, pacing the room as she tried to regain her composure. She could feel his eyes on her. She turned to him and he met her gaze with a defiant glare.

"So, what are you going to do to me?"

"Do to you?" she asked.

"Ja," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Are you going to kill me now, or are you still going to wait until the next Follmoane?"

"I," she started, shaking her head. "I'm not going to kill you, Jon."

His lips curled into some mirthless mockery of a smile. "I heard your meister talking about a ritual. I'm not stupid. You're going to sacrifice me to your Goader."

"What? No!" She laughed, feeling an odd relief at finally understanding part of his hate. It was fear that was holding him back.

"There's no need to lie, I wish you'd just get it over with," he spat, throwing himself back into the window seat, facing away from her.

She pulled up a chair and sat down. "Jon," she said, waiting for him to look up. "I don't want to kill you, I want you to give me a babe."

He stared back at her in disbelief, his mouth falling open. "When a woman wants a man to give her a babe, she gets him alone and takes off her clothes," he muttered after a long silence.

She chuckled. "Is that how it works for you Fergermen?"

"That's how it works for normal people!" His voice was venomous.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He laughed, a joyless and callous sound. "I can't believe this," he said with clenched fists, shaking his head. "I've been your prisoner for a moane now. You won't let me leave, you won't even tell me why I'm here."

"It's complicated," she muttered, looking down at her lap. 

"It's not," he scoffed with another cold laugh. Contempt and revulsion were written all over his face. "You're Kwene, and you think you can do whatever you want! You think you can make everyone around you do whatever you want!"

"Nei," she whispered, shaking her head. 

"You really believe you can keep me locked up here and then use me like..." His words trailed off in an angry splutter. 

"Nei," she objected, stopping herself as she tried to reach for him. "It's not like that. I don't want to _use _you."

He interrupted her. "Ja. You do. You want to force me to share your bed and give you my seed, so you can have a babe. That's using me."

She shook her head, rising to her feet to take a step forward, but he stepped back. "Jon, I don't want to force you. I was hoping you'd be... agreeable by the time we..."

"Agreeable?" he roared. "Your men killed my friends, the people I considered my family, because I never had a true one! How could I ever be _agreeable__?"_

_If only you knew you do have a family_, she thought, forcing back tears, _but you hate us_. _You love these people who only mean to hurt us, but you hate us! _The thought made her so angry that she lashed out again.

"Those men were defending _my _people! Your _friends and family _were raiding _my _villages! They steal and rape and kill! They murdered my husband!"

He stared at her for a moment, something shifting in his eyes, but he quickly recovered. "In that case, you should understand!" he retorted, jabbing a finger at her. 

"I should understand?" she shrieked, unleashing all of her rage. "You can't even understand that it is my right and duty to defend my people against thieves who mean to harm them!"

"You call us thieves, but you're the ones who stole our land!" He was advancing on her this time, his entire face flushed red and his eyes burning, but she wouldn't cringe back.

"We didn't steal anything!" Her heart was pounding, filling her veins with hot rage and making her body tremble.

"Nei?" he asked, panting with fury. "Nei, Wulf Kwene? Let me share some wisdom with you you Sudligers seem to have forgotten." His hands were clenched into tight fists and he gulped, wetting his lips.

"Our Goader made the earth for all men to share. But then you Sudligers came with your crowns and steel swords, and claimed it was all yours! Your land, your trees, your streams, your food, your woods and your castles! You stole everything and then you said you'd share it with us if only we kneeled to you! Share what was already ours to begin with!"

Sansa stared at him in disbelief. His shoulders were heaving as he paused to steady himself.

"But fine then, call us thieves! At least a thief has to be brave and clever and quick! A Knaler only has to kneel!"

She didn't know what to say to that, but so much of the other things he'd told her were wrong.

"Not all of you come raiding here for food and such! Some of you steal swords and axes. Spices, silks, and furs. They grab every coin and ring and jewelled cup they can find, casks of wine in summer and casks of beef in winter, and they take women in any season and carry them off beyond the Mur!"

"And how is that different from what you are doing to me?"

She clenched her fists, biting her lip as she averted her eyes. How she wished she could tell him the truth! But would that change anything? Would he even believe her? She took a deep breath. 

"Look, Jon, Noarlan and the Fergerman have been at odds for as long as both of our people can remember. You have your stories about how that came to be, and we have ours, and I can assure you they're very different from yours!"

He huffed, shaking his head.

"What I'm trying to say," she continued. "We are enemies, but perhaps we shouldn't be." 

"This is how it's always been," he disagreed. "I don't see why things would change."

"We are kin, Jon! The Fergermen and us people of Noarlan. We share blood! We have more in common than you think." _Even more than I can tell you right now._

He glared at her with eyes full of hate and hissed: "I have nothing in common with you!" 

Her heart sank into her stomach and she turned around without looking back. She wouldn't let him see her tears. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lexicon
> 
> skyle: shelter  
skerme: protection


	11. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon, in angry emo brooding mood, gets drunk.

_Agreeable. _That was the word that lingered in Jon's mind afterwards. _Agreeable._ That woman was insufferable, and mad, completely and utterly mad.

_Are you sure? _a voice that sounded suspiciously much like Tormund's asked him. _Maybe you're the madman, balking when a beautiful woman tells you she wants to bed you!_

_She doesn't want to bed me, _he told the voice, _she wants to use me to get with child. _

_So what? I told you a thing or two about pleasing a woman. If you make sure she likes it, she'll come back begging you for more. Chances are you'll have to do it a decent amount of times before your seed takes root anyway. You can't lose, Sno! You'll both get what you want!_

"I don't want her!" he snarled.

_Just because you keep saying that don't make it true, boy!_

"Shut up!" he snapped. _I won't give her what she wants, not after everything she's done to me!_

_Oaren take him!_ He was listening and talking back to voices that only existed inside his own head. Perhaps he _was _going mad. 

It must be this room, he decided, and this castle. He'd been so close to getting out, so close, but then he'd run into a giant wolf that had somehow driven him right back into the arms of his captors. Had Sansa's Goader sent that beast to bring him back? If they held such power in this world, why hadn't _his_ Goader sent him any help? 

_Because life isn't fair, _he thought, it had never been kind to him. Did that mean he was lost, that he would never win his freedom back? He shook his head, jumping off the window seat, and started to pace the room. There was something about that wolf that kept him wondering, as if he was so close to asking the right question and finding the answer that he could almost touch it, but for some reason it always stayed right out of his reach.

_Damme, _he wanted to punch something. He needed to get out out of this room. Would they let him? They hadn't tied his hands when they brought him back to Winterfell, they hadn't put him back in his cell, but to the room in the guesthouse the Kwene had given him before.

There was only one way to find out. He walked to the door and pulled it open, closing it behind him as he stepped out into the hallway. There was a guard on either side of the door, and two more eyeing him from the opposite wall. None of them moved at his sudden appearance.

He gave them all a curt nod and turned right, toward the end of the hallway that led to the staircase. He kept walking without looking back, only risking one quick glance as he took the first step, and saw that two of them were shadowing him from a distance, but didn't seem to be in any hurry to stop him.

They were still following him when he stepped out into the bailey. He wasn't sure where he wanted to go, but after breathing in the fresh air, his stomach started growling. He'd skipped last night's supper, and he had refused to touch the tray they'd brought him that morning. He'd gone without food much longer in the past, but his body had grown used to being fed regularly.

Staying hungry was only going to worsen his mood, and the kitchens were only twenty feet away. He'd never been there before, but surely they'd give him food if he asked for it? Maybe he shouldn't even bother to ask, he could just take it.

Once inside, Jon felt a bit lost standing in the middle of the warm and buzzing space, and somewhat like a fool, unsure how to proceed.

A pretty young woman with honey-coloured braids noticed him and offered him a shy smile. After depositing her basket, she returned to him and greeted him with a weird nod and bow. 

"Can I help you, Myn Herra?" she asked.

Jon scrunched up his nose. "I-I'm not," he tried to explain. "Um, I'm hungry."

"Poppy!" someone bellowed.

A large woman in a white apron with forearms twice the size of Jon's approached them. 

"I won't have you slacking around, Poppy!" the woman scolded the younger girl. 

"I wasn't slacking, Margryt!" she answered with her hands on her hips. "Herra Jon is hungry."

Jon gave her an icy glare for calling him that again, but she winked at him and tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear.

He cleared his throat and averted his eyes.

"What are you doing still standing here then?" Margryt roared. Jon thought she must be incapable of speaking more softly. "Go and get him some food!"

Poppy quickly hurried off after that. 

"Sit down, bern," she ordered him. "Poppy will be back soon! You let us know if you need anything else!" Her wide grin revealed that one of her front teeth was missing.

Jon watched as she left him to return to her work. That had been odd.

Poppy returned soon after with a tray of food. She'd brought him broth with large chunks of carrots and turnips, bread and butter, hard cheese, baked apples and a flagon of ale. 

She stayed close and poured him a second tankard of ale when he'd finished the first one. He found he had more than a healthy thirst for it and downed that one in one go. He tried to ignore the girl who kept watching him as he ate all the food she'd brought him.

He found himself draining the last cup shortly after finishing his meal. "Do you have more of that?" he asked her.

She disappeared around the corner and came back with a smaller jug, pouring him another cup, but not quite filling it to the brim. Jon eyed the cup and then the jug she was holding to her chest with a teasing smile on her lips.

"Actually I was thinking another flagon," he told her. "Maybe two."

She bit her lip. "It's only just after midday, Myn Herra."

"Stop that," he muttered, taking another swig of ale. 

She ignored him. "I might get in trouble for this," she told him, putting a hand on his arm. "What will I get in return?"

He slammed the tankard down on the table, scaring her away. He was not in the mood for games. One woman wanting things from him he couldn't give her was quite enough.

He scowled at her. "My gratitude," he snapped.

"Of course," she mumbled, keeping her head down. 

Jon left with his two flagons soon after, the guards who'd been waiting in the corner trailing after him. He wished they'd leave him alone. Perhaps they would, if he shared some of his ale with them, but he preferred to keep it all to himself.

The best place to get rid of them would be the Goaderwald, so that was where he decided to go. Maybe he'd give the Goader a piece of his mind as well, ask them what the fuck they were doing to him.

He uncorked a flagon and took a long gulp of ale, continuing on his way. As he'd hoped, the guards seemed pleased to let him wander off into the Goaderwald by himself, waiting at the gates. 

He ended up sitting down with his back against a tree near the hot springs. The ale and the steam wafting off the water's surface were making him pleasantly drowsy. He drifted off before he'd finished the first flagon of ale. 

He opened his eyes to find a woman straddling him, hands braced on his chest. When his vision came into focus, he recognized her dark golden hair, her freckled heart-shaped face, and her smiling hazel eyes.

"Maglyn?" he whispered.

Her smile grew wider and she leaned in to capture his lips in a bruising kiss. "I've missed you, Sno," she murmured as she pulled away.

He'd used to hate when people called him that. Though none of the Fergermen cared a fig about it, to Jon it was a constant reminder that he hadn't been born as one of them. They'd taken him in when his Knaler parents had abandoned him, their unwanted bastard, and they were the only family he'd ever known.

But he had come to love the way Maglyn's lips curled around the name when she said it, and the smile in her eyes that would accompany it. 

"How is this possible?" he asked her. It had been two years since the fever had taken her, and now she was sitting atop him, alive and well.

She frowned and shook her head. "You're always asking too many questions." She took his hands and put them on her breasts, urging him to squeeze.

The next thing he knew, she'd taken him inside of her, moaning as she rolled her hips.

She leaned down to kiss his neck as his arms wrapped around her. She licked and sucked and nibbled on his skin and then nipped at his collarbone.

His eyes fluttered closed, despite the confusion that was still plaguing him, and she sat up to start bouncing up and down on him. She ran two fingers down the sides of his throat, making him buck up into her, and chuckled.

"I knew you'd be agreeable, Jon," she sighed.

His eyes flew open. Maglyn was gone, and it was now Sansa who was riding his cock.

His fingers curled around her throat and she grinned down at him, squeezing her cunt around his length.

He flipped her over and pulled her up on her hands and knees. He grabbed her hips and used his hand to guide himself back inside her.

He slammed into her, pouring all of his rage into every thrust. He gathered her long red hair in one hand and wrapped it around his palm and wrist, pulling her back as he fucked her, hard and relentless.

She hissed and shuddered, arching her back as she pushed her arse into him.

"You like that, Wulf Kwene?" he asked her. 

"Ja," she moaned. "Please, Jon, more!" She kept whimpering his name.

"Shut up," he told her. "Shut up."

When he felt his climax approaching, he pulled out and spilled his seed on her arse cheeks and lower back.

She twisted her neck to stare back at him in shock, and then he woke up, the dream quickly slipping away from his fuzzy mind.

He thrashed and twisted and gasped as he opened his eyes in the dark, a slight queasiness coming over him as he moved.

He sat up, ignoring the sway and lurch of his head, and remembered he was in the Goaderwald. He must have fallen asleep, and while he slept, the sun had set. Only the Follmoane was illuminating the trees and the forest floor now.

He found his last flagon of ale and pushed himself to his feet, struggling to keep his balance. He was cold, he'd better get back to the castle.

He took a swig of ale to relieve his parched mouth and closed the flagon again. After a couple more steps it slipped from his hand, landing on the grass with a soft thud.

He tried to bend over to pick it up, but his feet wouldn't cooperate, refusing to stay in the same place as they propelled him forward. 

He twisted and took a step to the side, throwing an arm out for balance, but swaying on his unsteady legs, which forced him to take another step.

His boot landed on a wet slippery patch of grass that sloped down, and he lost his footing, slipping away as his hands grabbed at anything they could reach, pulling out grass as he slid down.

His feet breached the surface of the water and he sank down into the pool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oaren: Others  
Damme: expletive: damn it, fuck, ...


	12. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the unexpected delay, real life suddenly got overwhelmingly busy! I also caught a bad cold which made it hard to focus, and that's when I wasn’t too tired to do anything. Having a shitty immune system really sucks :')  
So unfortunately I had to leave this (and writing in general) on the back burner for a couple of weeks. I'm still busy, so I'm not sure how often I'll be able to update, but at least once a week should be possible!

Sansa almost felt like a girl again as she reached her chambers and flung herself onto the bed to sob into the furs. She was starting to think that perhaps the Goader had deceived her, that somehow this was all a cruel jape.

Jon would never love her, not unless he regained his memories, and even then his hate for her might run too deep. She'd written to Frou Karstark and Frou Mormont for help, but so far, they hadn't found a way to undo the spells Eddara and Lyanna had used on Jon either. 

Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she was wasting both his time and her own.

Her body felt so tired and heavy, and so did her mind. Even her tears brought her no true relief. When her sobs had calmed down a little, exhaustion took her and she fell asleep still softly crying into her pillow.

She awoke from a fitful sleep only a couple of hours later. It took her a while to realize it was the soft knock at her door that had pulled her from her slumber.

"Dyne Hegenesse?" the voice of one of her maids drifted through the wood. "Your father is here to see you."

She rolled onto her side, licking her lips, and swallowed to soothe her dry throat. "I'll be out right away. Let him wait in my solar."

She was tempted to close her eyes and let sleep take her again. Whatever news Daeda deemed important enough to disturb her over while she was indisposed would not be cheerful. She was not quite ready to deal with it.

As much as she wanted to though, she could not keep hiding in her bed like a little girl. She would not begrudge herself this moment of weakness, but now it was time to pick herself up again.

She walked over to her looking glass to splash some water into her face and try to fix her hair.

She looked ghastly. Her face was pale and blotchy and her lips were chapped, but her eyes were the worst. They were red-rimmed and lined by dark circles. 

She took a deep breath. There was no use in trying to hide her qualms from her father, so she pushed herself to her feet and walked out of her bedroom.

She greeted Colin and dismissed the maids, taking a seat opposite him and stared down at the scroll in his hands.

"What's that?" she asked him.

His eyes narrowed as he took in her face, but he handed her the scroll without any further comment. Sansa recognized the pink seal immediately.

"This arrived while you were asleep," he explained. "I'm sorry to burden you with this, but I thought it better not to wait too long. It might be urgent."

Sansa read the words that had been scribbled down in a small but neat hand. "I don't understand," she muttered, returning the scroll so he could read it as well. 

"It's unexpected," he agreed after studying the letter.

"Why is Rosamund Bolton coming to the Garkoming?" Sansa wondered aloud.

"You stripped her of her lands and titles," her father pointed out. "But she's still a Wize of Noarlan. She has every right to attend the Garkoming. And to witness your Sambinding, if you still insist on having that take place."

Sansa ignored his last remark. "She hasn't been to a Garkoming since... Ramsay."

He put the letter down and tapped his fingers on the table, his eyes narrowing. "Perhaps she needed time to mourn."

"Perhaps." Sansa shrugged, trying to shake off the sense of dread that seemed to be creeping up her spine. 

Her father pursed his lips. "But we both know that's not very likely."

Sansa rubbed her temple. _Of course not._ "Can I tell her she's not welcome?"

"You're Kwene, of course you could do that. But I don't believe you should."

It was sound advice. Sansa had no doubt Frou Rosamund still held some power in Noarlan, that she still had allies who might be swayed against Sansa, for the right price. She'd rather not have her even anywhere near Winterfell and her family, but it wouldn't do to insult her by denying her the right to attend the Garkoming.

She pushed herself to her feet and walked over to the sidetable where her maids had left a couple of flagons and poured a cup of mede for herself and wine for her father. 

"Why now?" she wondered aloud as she returned to the table, setting the cups down.

Her father lifted his cup to his mouth, frowning into it before taking a sip of wine. His sharp eyes narrowed, but then he said: "Jeyne told me what happened last night."

Sansa blinked at the change of subject and crossed her arms over her chest. "She shouldn't have."

"Why?" He leaned back in his chair. "Are you trying to keep secrets from your Daeda, bern?"

"Nei." She shook her head. "I just... I don't know."

She had no trouble sharing her heart with the ones she loved, if it might help her or lighten her burden in any way. But the duty of being Kwene was a lonely one at times, and if trouble were truly ahead, now was not the time for her to be selfish and vulnerable. 

"It doesn't mattter," she muttered, staring into her cup.

"It matters to you," her father said softly.

She bit her lip, fighting back the tears that were threatening to overwhelm her again. "He hates me," she whispered. "Even more than before, and I can't even fault him for it."

Colin didn’t say anything, just reached for her hand, covering it with his own and squeezing it.

Sansa couldn't meet his eyes, afraid that whatever look she'd find in them would break the dam of her emotions.

She took a deep breath, and another one, to steady herself. She was grateful for her father's silence, the patience he'd learned to have with her.

Colin's instincts were usually more direct, more eager to offer immediate help and take action. But there was little he could do to help her in this, and even if he could it was not what Sansa needed.

Oddly enough she remembered some quip she'd heard him make as a child, about Noarligers with their frozen exteriors and soft hearts, and how it took patience and tenacity to find a way to those hearts.

She hadn't understood as a child, but now she knew he had meant he'd had to employ that patience and tenacity with her mother. The thought brought a watery smile to Sansa's face, before her heart sunk again.

How could she hope that Jon would ever be able to see beyond her own frozen exterior. How could she show him her heart?

When she looked up, her father seemed to have caught on to her train of thought.

"He's been away for fifteen years," he said. He's had a life outside of you and Winterfell. You can't just erase all of those years."

"No," she agreed. "I can't." And that was part of the problem. That life he'd had without her, had turned him against her. Trying to take that away from him was cruel, but how was she suposed to change his mind?

Should she just tell him the truth? Why would he even believe her? It wouldn't solve anything, it would be another act of cruelty. But then again, wasn't it equally as cruel to keep the truth from him, to let him live a lie, without ever knowing who he truly was?

"He'll understand," her father interrupted her thoughts. "Once he gets his memories back."

It wasn't a lie, but Sansa could tell he wasn't convinced of his own words. "What if he doesn't?"

What if she was wrong? She'd found it so difficult to learn to trust her own heart and judgement again, after making her first mistakes. Was she doing it again? Was Jon the worst mistake she was ever going to make?

"And how is he going to get his memories back?"

Her father didn’t have an answer for that.

She told him she needed time to think, and wanted to be alone. Judging by the look on his face, he appeared to doubt that statement, but he didn't object. 

After he left, she paced around her solar. She knew it wouldn't do. She needed comfort, and guidance, and there was only one place she would find it.

Perhaps now was the right time to take a risk. She reached into one of her cabinets, removing a panel and retrieving the small jar she'd only used twice before.

She gathered the rest of her supplies and headed to the Goaderwald.

When she'd arrived there, she performed all of her usual rituals, and then she took the jar from her basket. She hesitated, staring at the object in her hand.

Mem had warned her against using the paste without someone there to guide her back, but there was no one who would really be of any use to her. She didn't wish to involve Jeyne in any of this, not now, after her confession from last night, and not after Jon's attempt to escape. She knew her friend would help her, would not hold her fixation against her, but Sansa didn't want to cause her any pain, however unintentionally. 

She closed her eyes, clutching the jar to her chest. It didn't feel wrong. Follmoan was the time for hope, for dreams. Perhaps now was the exact right time to take a risk. 

She took a werewald bowl with faces carved all around its rim out of her basket and looked for a couple of other jars and pouches, deciding which ones to use. 

From a tiny red pouch, she added a dozen of miniscule white seeds to her bowl and crushed them with a pestle. She added three bright green leaves that she kept in a jar of oil, and bruised those until they released their moisture. 

She collected a trickle of sap from the Hertbom's face and added it to her bowl. Then she opened the jar, and used a twig to extract the smallest amount of paste possible and mixed it into her concoction. She closed the jar again and stored it away safely.

The paste was possibly over a hundred years old, and only grew stronger with time, holding the power of all those who had used it before. The two times Sansa had used it before, it had been for a different purpose than she had now, but she had faith that it would work.

She closed her eyes and tried to control her breathing, letting go off all of her emotions, so they wouldn't affect her journey. 

The paste tasted bitter at first, but already better by the second bite, and by the third she could taste honey, fresh snow, smoke and salt. 

She lay down on the forest floor, staring up at the Werewald's leaves high above her, and beyond, the clear grey sky, until the light began to hurt her eyes and she closed them, basking in the warm glow that surrounded her. 

The werewald paste started working slowly, gently pulling Sansa under, as if she was being submerged in warm, soothingly fragrant water. It was almost like falling asleep, the feeling of sinking down comforting instead of alarming. 

And then the flashes started coming. Some of them were bright, with brilliant, almost blinding colours, others more subdued, with dull and muted hues, which oddly enough felt more comfortable than the more vivid ones. All of them left her with an impression she forgot as soon as the next image appeared before her mind's eye. As soon as she decided what she'd seen, it was gone again, and more often than not, she couldn't even discern what she was seeing. 

She saw another glimpse of her and Jon in the Wulvanwald, but they were startled by a loud roar. A pale-eyed monster appeared and drove them apart, chasing after Jon until he was swept up by a rolling wave. When the sea retreated from the woods again, Jon was locked up in a cage of emerald and amethyst. 

Shocked by this scene, Sansa cried out, but she couldn't reach him.

And then she was flying, leaving Winterfell's walls and heading North, beyond the Mur, beyond the Froastfanger, until she reached a Werewald that was larger than any other she had ever seen. 

She plunged down into the hollow crown of the tree, greeted by darkness, warmth and the faint sound of singing. She drew closer to the sound, and it grew louder and stronger.

That was where she found them, nestled in the web woven by the tree’s roots, small and slight, but with large ears and catlike eyes, their skin a dappled brown.

They continued their song, but she couldn't understand the words. Only the Ferskesaengers knew the Tro Spraek, but she could tell their song was a sad one.

One of them noticed her and offered her what she believed was a smile.

_Who are you?_

"My name is too long and too complicated to tell you right now, but you can call me Kroanbled." Her voice did not reach Sansa through her ears, but she could feel it inside of her.

_I came here to ask for guidance._

"Listen," Kroanbled said.

Sansa closed her eyes and suddenly the words didn't sound as unfamiliar anymore.

“So learn well the words of my song,” they all sang. “For when I am gone the singing will fade, and the silence will last long and long.”

_I don't understand. _

"You have a part to play," Kroanbled told her. "Your path is clear."

Slowly, gently, Sansa was pulled away, soaring backwards out of the cave and back up through the tree and into the skies above, until she floated back down to Winterfell and into her body again. 

When she pushed herself up and came back to her senses, she was shocked by how sharp they all were, after her last murky, almost dreamlike visions, too sharp. The moon appeared from behind a cloud, and she realized she was on all fours. She lifted her head up and howled, crying out in confusion, but then her instincts took over, and she started running. 

She felt odd, the hazy dreamlike state she was in so unfamiliar to the Wulf, but the sensation of the wind in her fur and the stretch and strain of her muscles soothed her. This forest smelled different than the one she knew, so she slowed down to take it all in. 

And there it was again, that sweet scent she'd only smelled once before. It was impossible to ignore it. Even if she'd wanted to, she couldn't have run away from it. Her paws moved of their own accord, propelling her forward, trying to find the source of that scent.

She was getting closer, she was almost there. And then she heard a scream and a splash, and she knew she had to hurry. As she approached the steam coming off the pools hit her, slowing her down again, but only for a moment, and then she leapt in after the struggling body lying in the water. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lexicon (I'll repeat some words, since it's been a while)
> 
> Garkoming: gathering  
Wize: witch, wise person  
Sambinding: union  
bern: child  
Follmoan: full moon  
Hertbom: heart tree  
Froastfanger: Frostfangs  
Ferskesaengers: literally: song singers, children of the forest  
Tro Spraek: True Tongue  
Kroanbled: Petal  
Wulf: wolf, werewolf
> 
> There's something I wanted to address before I move on with this story...
> 
> I've had people commenting on wanting Jon to remember something for a couple of chapters now, which I completely understand.
> 
> Here's the deal though, I decided from the very start, even before I posted the first chapter, what was going to trigger Jon into regaining his conscious, active memories.
> 
> Some of you have rightly guessed that Jon is experiencing something resembling memories or perhaps more accurately familiarity in Winterfell and with some of its people on a more subconscious level, but he won't have any flashbacks or clear memories for now. I'm not planning to change that, and I have a couple of reasons for that.
> 
> First of all, in universe, magic is an important part of this world, and I believe that magic should have rules. I've determined what those rules are and I'm sticking to them.
> 
> Secondly, from a narrative point of view, Jon getting his memories back is going to cause some major shifts. Jon's relationship with Sansa is obviously going to change because of it, and he'll go through a considerable identity crisis that will force him to rethink his entire worldview.  
Because of this, I want Jon and Sansa to be able to form some kind of connection before that happens, BUT I can't do that without first addressing the issues that are standing between them at this point.
> 
> I hope all of this gives you some insight in case you were getting frustrated with some of the choices I'm making, or just generally helps you understand my plans for this fic.
> 
> I hope you are still enjoying this story!


	13. Jon

Jon tried to grab and hold onto something, anything, as he slipped down, but his hands would not cooperate. His limbs felt oddly heavy and light at the same time, as if they were somehow disconnected from the rest of his body. Not even the shock of falling and sinking down into the water would urge them into action.

He thought he might have cried out as he hit the water, but he couldn't even tell how long ago that had been. He couldn't see anything in the dark water. He tried to struggle, but nothing happened, he could only feel his body drifting away as water filled his mouth and lungs.

On the inside, he was kicking and screaming, but his body refused to do as it was told. Blind panic was starting to overwhelm him, and black was seeping in from the edges of his mind, pulling him down, but suddenly he felt a heavy weight on his back.

Something grabbed his arm, and he was turned over. He coughed up water, but he still couldn't breathe. The moon was bright high above him. His arms stung, and he realized he was being dragged away, he didn't know where, but then he was released, and the side of his body bumped into something immovable.

He was clasped by the shoulder this time, sharp pangs of pain piercing his skin, and he thought he was being pulled up, sliding up something fairly smooth but solid, apart from the pointy end that chafed the skin between his shoulderblades.

He was lying flat on his back now, solid ground beneath him, and he started coughing up more water as something rough, wet and hot was dragged over his face. A weight hit his chest this time, and more water was forced from his lungs.

He lay there, gazing up at the stars and moon, still not quite unable to move, but as if his body wasn't sure how to execute what his mind wanted it to do. 

He was't able to tell how much time was passing, as far as he knew it could have been days, if it wasn't for the fact that the sky above him remained mostly unchanged, but at some point he managed to wiggle his toes and then his fingers, and then he gained enough control to roll onto his side.

Only a couple of feet away from him, an enormous wolf was pacing, suddenly turning toward him, as if it had heard him move, and closed the distance between them. It inclined its head to sniff at his face and nuzzled his chest.

He recognized the beast. It was the same one that had found and chased him last night. He should have felt fear, but he noticed his heart wasn't speeding up. He realized now in fact, that despite his fall and the experience of nearly drowning, it had been beating slowly since before he'd slipped into the pool.

Questions started flooding his mind. What was happening to him? How did the wolf get in here? Was all of this a dream? His earlier panic as he thought he was drowning had felt real enough, but now everything he'd experienced since he'd woken from his dream all seemed so surreal.

Was he still asleep? Was that why he still couldn't move? The wolf had saved him, but why would it do that? It had risked its own life. He could see the beast's fur was still dripping, and parts of its fur were matted with mud. And though he could hardly feel it, he knew the night must be cold.

Somewhere to his right, coming from the direction he was facing, a twig snapped, and the wolf's ears perked up, the sudden stiffness of its entire body betraying its alertness. If people were coming, it might run away. For some reason, Jon didn't want it to.

The wolf jerked around, and Jon heard low, rumbling voices, and then a soft growl. The wolf disappeared from his vision, and the voices grew louder. He could see two men approaching from the treeline, talking freely as if they didn't have a care in the world.

They came to a halt as they spotted him lying there in the grass. The tallest one laughed. Jon recognized him as Godrik, the guard he'd bested in the training yard only yesterday, or perhaps it had been the day before. It felt like a lifetime ago.

The other man was one of the guards who'd been following him earlier today. Jon could feel his body growing taut under their scrutiny, but he still didn't have enough control over it to get up. It probably wouldn't even matter if he could, there were two of them, and they were armed.

Godrik drew his sword. "What are you doing?" the other man whispered furiously, as if he was suddenly worried they were being watched. "We're not supposed to harm him!"

Godrik shrugged. "The result will be the same."

"They want him alive!" the other man insisted.

Jon willed his body to move. He could almost feel his muscles tense up, but they objected against his attempts. Where was the wolf? _I could use some help here. _

"Accidents happen all the time," Godrik told his companioh as he advanced, a smirk twisting his gaunt face.

"You shouldn't spill blood in the Goaderwald," the other man objected. "Not like this."

"The Goader will be pleased I rid them of this Wyldling scum!" Godrik spat on the ground and took another step.

Out of nowhere a huge pale form collided with the man and he toppled over, crashing to the ground, his sword clattering out of his hands.

Jon heard a snarl and a crush as teeth and jaws snapped shut and Godric's scream dissolved into a sickly wet gurgle. 

The other man tried to run, but the wolf was too fast for him. It made another fast and clean kill.

Slowly and seemingly unperturbed by what had just happened, it trotted over to him. Jon's heart was beating so wildly he suspected it was trying to escape from his chest. 

_That's twice now you've saved me tonight, _Jon thought as it lay down next to him, the pale fur around its muzzle drenched in bright red.

As slowly and gently as he could, Jon forced himself into a sitting position, never losing sight of the wolf. It only lifted its head to start licking its paw.

"You're not so bad, are you?" Jon asked it, his voice rough, as if he hadn't used it in a long while.

He'd already been running when the wolf had found him last night, and its appearance had startled him. And of course he'd been frightened when it had started chasing him, but looking back after what he'd witnessed tonight, he realized the beast easily could have killed him if it had wanted to.

And tonight, he had never truly felt scared in its presence. He'd suspected it had been sent by the Knaler Goader before, but now he was wondering if perhaps it had a different purpose.

"I probably ought to thank you," he murmured. "Would it insult you if I called you a good boy?"

The wolf's ears went flat and a low growl rose from its chest.

"Alright then," he chuckled, but then a thought occurred to him. "Or perhaps you're not a boy at all, huh? Are you a girl?"

The wolf's ears perked up and it tilted its head.

"Are you?" _Damme, _was he really talking to a wolf?

Slowly he moved onto his knees, and inch by inch, cautiously and as smoothly as possible, keeping his hand from trembling, he reached out until he could touch the side of the wolf's head. Her fur was soft and warm where it had started to dry. 

"Good girl," he murmured, and she leaned into his touch. He shivered. His clothes were still wet and he was finally starting to feel the cold.

The wolf pushed herself to her feet and trotted away from him. She had to come back twice for him to understand that she wanted him to follow her.

He'd only taken a couple of steps when his left foot hit something hard. When he kneeled to inspect it, he recognized the flagon he'd dropped earlier. He picked it up and hurried after the wolf, who'd been waiting for him.

She led him to the Werewald, and though he was reluctant to follow her there, he could feel that the closer he came to the tree, the warmer the air around him felt.

He decided to take his clothes off. They'd be able to dry if he hung them over the branches of a smaller tree, and he'd only get sick if he kept them on. He chuckled as he saw the wolf turning away from him to give him some privacy.

He sat down at what he considered a safe distance from the Hertbom and picked up his flagon of ale. The wolf glared at the flagon and growled.

Jon took a swig anyway. It tasted too bitter and slightly sour. 

"You're probably right," he told the wolf. "Ale is poison. I wouldn't have slipped into the pool if I hadn't been drinking."

She lay down next to him again and rested her enormous head on her paws. 

"Are you tired?" he asked her, yawning. He was also beginning to feel drowsy again. 

Despite everything that had happened to him in the last twenty-four hours, Jon felt warm and safe, and it didn't take long for him to fall asleep again. 

At first he slept soundly, but then vivid images started flooding his mind. He dreamed he was standing in the middle of the Goaderwald, near the Hertbom, close to where he'd fallen asleep. He was naked and people were looking at him, waiting.

The dream changed, and he was lying down again, the woman in his arms as naked as he was, her head tucked under his chin, her long red hair fanned out on the bright green grass behind her. She sighed happily as he pulled her closer, her swollen belly pressing against his stomach.

She slipped out of his arms and suddenly he was in some other place, still in a forest, but this one felt different.He'd been there before, but it wasn't really familiar. The moment he realized he was running on all fours was when his surroundings blurred and shifted again.

A salty wind ruffled his hair as a bright sun beamed down on him. The floor under his feet was constantly moving, and all around them, from horizon to horizon, they were surrounded by water. Jon had never been on a ship before, but he'd seen them at Hardhem. He didn't recognize the people on deck, but most of them looked unfriendly to him, except for one man, who had a wide grin plastered on his handsome face. Jon didn't like the way he was smiling, as if he was amused by something Jon was unaware of.

The ship and sea around him faded and he was standing in a great stone hall. A woman in a crimson gown was walking toward him. Her hair was silver and gold, and pulled back from her face in elaborate and artful braids. When she reached him, he noticed that she had one amethyst-coloured eye, and while the other was as green as an emerald. She offered him a sweet smile, but Jon took a wary step back.

She faded and blurred and he was lying on the forest floor. The red-haired woman was in his arms again, her back to his chest this time, and he pulled her closer. He didn't know who she was, but he thought she must be his. 

He let his hand slide down her side, over her hip and thigh and back up again, to the front of her body to cup a soft but firm and perfectly round breast. 

She moaned and thrust her hips back. "Is this a dream?" she asked in a husky, sleepy voice.

The question confused him, but he answered it anyway. "Ja, I think so."

He was hard and ready for her, so he slid his hand back up to part her legs and find the wet heat between them.

Unexpectedly she turned around in his arms. He recognized her now. He knew her name. He tested it out on his tongue. "Sansa."

A flash of annoyance confused him for a moment, and he vaguely recalled that he was angry, but it didn't matter now. He wanted her.

He looked at her wide eyes, parted lips and the flush on her cheeks and smiled. He leaned in to crash their lips together, slanting his mouth over hers to kiss her hungrily. The taste of her was salty and metallic, but he didn't dislike it. 

He grinned against her lips when she kissed him back, and gently pushed her onto her back, rolling on top of her.

He braced his arms on either side of her head and inclined his head to kiss her neck, sucking and nipping at her pulse point. He pressed his hardness against her mound and she moaned again, her hands clasping at his shoulders.

"Jon!" she gasped.

He shifted his weight to push his thigh between her legs to part them. 

"Jon, wait!" she cried out, clasping her thighs shut. 

He stilled and frowned down at her.

She shook her head. "We shouldn't, Jon."

"Why not?" he asked. "You don't want to?"

She licked her lips and swallowed. "I do."

"I don't understand."

She cupped his cheek and offered him a watery smile. "I think you're not in your right mind, Jon."

Gently she pushed at his chest until he moved off her and sat back. She then rose to her feet, walking away from him. As she walked, she combed her hair over one shoulder with her fingers, revealing an intricate, triangular mark at the base of her neck. 

She returned quickly, and he couldn't help licking his lips as he watched her approach. She took his hand and placed a small handful of orange dried berries in his palm.

"Chew on those," she told him, stepping away from him.

She sat down a couple of feet away from him, pulling her knees up to her chest and hugging her legs with her arms. The skin around her lips was stained red. 

He popped the berries into his mouth and started chewing. They were tough and dry at first, but as they softened they became mostly sweet, and just a tad bitter and tangy.

He glanced up at her. "Am I supposed to feel different? Nothing is happening."

"Give it some time," she answered. 

And soon after it all came back to him. He remembered who and what they were to each other, where they were and why they were there. 

_Damme, what the fuck did he almost do? _How had she been the one to stop it? _You're a fool, Sno, a thrice-damned fool! _

She knew now. She knew what a weakling and a hypocrite he truly was. He clenched his jaw and dragged a hand down his face. 

Memories from the night before started flooding his mind and they were followed by a thousand questions, but the first thing he said to her was not a question: "You are the wolf."


	14. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dialogue-heavy, and there's not a lot going on aside from that, but I think it's about time these two started talking to each other :D

Jon looked up at Sansa. "You are the wolf." All things considered, that seemed like the safest and easiest topic to address right now. 

She rested her chin on one of her knees and met his gaze calmly. "Does that frighten you?"

Some of the Fergermen feared hudskifters, the way they feared every kind of heksery. Others accepted them, as being part of the world the Goader had created. At the very least they held a reluctant respect for them. 

He supposed all the rumours and wild tellings he'd heard finally made sense now he knew the truth. He considered this new knowledge for a moment, waiting for the shock, the confusion and the fear to hit him, but they didn't come. 

"Nei. I think I liked you better as the wolf," he replied after a long silence. 

Her answer came quickly and with a smirk that curled up her lips. "You seemed to like me well enough earlier."

Obviously she wasn't going to let him forget about that. She must be so pleased with his lapse. He pushed himself to his feet, ready to leave, looking around for his clothes when a smug and amused voice asked him: _Then why did she stop you?_

_It doesn't matter, _he wanted to bite back, but as he stood there in the middle of the Goaderwald, alone, naked and confused, he suddenly felt tired of being angry, and his curiosity won.

"Why did you stop me, before?" he asked, turning to her to see she was also standing. "When... You had me right where you wanted me."

She shook her head. "Not exactly."

"What do you mean?" He tried to avoid looking at her, knowing he wouldn't be able to keep his eyes from wandering.

"I told you it's complicated," she said. "But that's not why I stopped you. "

"Then why? " He couldn't explain why it was so important for him to know, but now that he'd asked he desperately needed an answer. 

"You weren't yourself, Jon. It would have been wrong. That's not what I want from you."

_Then what do you want from me? _he wondered, but he kept the question to himself. There was a more pressing matter to address.

"How..." he started, "Why did- What happened to--" but he couldn't find the words. 

"They put something in your ale, Jon," she whispered gently.

His head whipped up. "What? What did they put in my ale?"

She glanced around and walked over to the spot where he'd dropped his flagon of ale the night before. She picked it up and took a swig of it, swirling the liquid around in her mouth before spitting it out again. 

A crease appeared between her eyebrows as she closed the flagon and went to stash it away in her basket. Then she picked up her gown and wrapped and fastened it around her body.

"Gullboler," she told him when she returned to him. "Someone put gullboler in that flagon."

He'd heard of those. Some people preferred the effect they had on the mind and body over that of ale or spirits. He knew Maglyn had tried them a couple of times.

He looked up as Sansa put a hand on his arm. "I swear I'll find out who did this, Jon."

<strike></strike>"How do I know it wasn't you who did it?"

She sighed, stepping away from him and shaking her head. "And why would I do that, Jon?"

He stared at the leaves on the ground. He wouldn't have put it past her, but she was right. It didn’t make any sense. Not after what she'd done. 

"You killed your own men," he muttered. 

"They were trying to hurt you," she said simply.

"Ja, but they were your men."

"They were trying to hurt you," she repeated. "Which means they can't have been very loyal to me." 

The fierce look in her eyes took him by surprise.

"They were supposed to take me somewhere," he recalled suddenly.

She nodded. "I have enemies."

_And what do your enemies want with me?_

"I need to know who gave you that ale, Jon."

Would she laugh if he told her he'd snuck into the kitchens to get food? "It was a girl in the kitchens," he mumbled. "Golden-haired, pretty. Her name was... Rose, or no, Daisy... Err, something with a flower."

Her blue eyes froze over and her lip twitched. "Poppy?" she asked.

"Ja, that was it."

"Did you eat or drink anything else she gave you?"

He could feel heat creeping up his face. He didn't want her to know how much he'd had to drink the day before. 

"Soup with bread and cheese, and apples, and some more ale," he tried to say casually. 

"Did any of it taste... off?"

He shrugged. "I don't think so."

Another frown appeared on her forehead and she rubbed her temples, taking a deep breath. "We'll talk later. I need to take care of some matters now."

She turned around to pick up her basket and walked away from him.

He stood there, staring at her as she disappeared from his view, suddenly dazed as he was overwhelmed by everything that had happened in the last couple of days.

He gathered his clothes, which were still damp, and decided to head back to his room in the guesthouse. He was cold and a dull ache was thudding in his temples. A couple of hours of peaceful sleep in a warm bed was what he needed.

He'd only been awake again for a short while when Sansa came knocking on his door. She was carrying another basket, which she put down close to his bed. 

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

He shrugged, rubbing at his beard and scratching the back of his head. "Alright, I suppose."

She pursed her lips, but nodded. "Can I sit with you for a spell?"

He narrowed his eyes at her and shrugged again. Would it make a difference if he told her no?

She retrieved an embroidery hoop from her basket and sat down on the only chair in the room to do needlework in silence, seemingly ignoring him as he tried to find something else to look at in the room besides her. 

"I ordered some food to be brought here," she offered suddenly. "I can assure you it will be checked this time."

"Is that why you're here? Are you personally going to watch over me from now on?"

She put her embroidery down in her lap and wrung her hands together before looking up at him. "I am sorry that my _interest_ in you has put you in danger, Jon, I truly am."

He grunted non-committally to let her know he'd heard her. 

"And I've even considered whether you'd be safer outside Winterfell, but I can't be sure. At least now that I know of this threat, I can try to protect you, as long as you're here."

Again, he wasn't quite sure how to respond to that. Some part of him wanted to believe that what she was saying was true. That she would truly let him go for his own safety, but he wasn't ready to trust her, even though she'd saved his life twice. The enmity between them couldn't be erased, not just like that.

"Would you listen if I told you a telling, about myself?" she asked.

He picked up a fur from the bed and wrapped it around his shoulders, giving himself time to think of an answer. Ever since he'd been a child he'd loved listening to tellings and ferskes, and he would be lying if he tried to tell himself he wasn't remotely curious about her.

"I don't have anywhere else to be right now," he answered. "So I might as well listen."

The corner of her mouth curled up as she picked up her embroidery again. "Very well then," she said. The pink of her tongue peeked out from between her lips as she focused on her needle for a moment, and then she started her telling. 

"I've been married three times," she told him. "I was seven-and-ten on my first wedding day. My husband was the son of the most powerful Frou in Noarlan, Rosamund Bolton. He was a good man, but he was unable to give me a child. Three times, my womb accepted his seed, and three times, I lost the babe after a couple of moons. In the end, I had no choice but to cut the ties of our marriage and banish him from my land."

"Why?" Jon wondered aloud. "Why did you have to banish him?"

The look on her face was sad. "It's the law, or tradition, whatever you want to call it. I was young, and I wanted to do right by my people, but believe me, I hated myself for it. I cried. Damme, I cried, bitter tears."

"You loved him," he heard himself saying. 

"Ja, I think so." She remained quiet, studying her hands, which had stilled in her lap. She took a deep breath. 

"After that, Frou Bolton proposed I should marry her second son, which was not an unacceptable offer, except we'd heard rumours about him."

"What kind of rumours?'

Her nostrils flared. "The worst kind. Besides, the boy had not been conceived during a parning, and no one knew who his father was, so some of the Frouer of Noarlan might be insulted if I had accepted him instead of one of their sons or brothers."

"I don't understand."

"He was a bastard," she explained.

_Then why would you want me to give you a babe? Why would your Frouer accept me?_

"He was enraged by my refusal," she continued. "So that's when he abducted Jeyne, and made her choose between marrying him or being flayed alive."

He still remembered the day they'd told him about Jeyne's husband. "He did all of those things to Jeyne because you refused him?"

"He did." She sat there nodding, lost in thought. "I later found out he'd actually wanted to kidnap my sister, not Jeyne, to punish me, but thank the Goader Daeda had taken her to Flodfaste by then."

He stared at her in horror. "He wanted to kidnap Arya and then... what? Do to her what he did to Jeyne?"

"Possibly." Her face was cold, but he could see that her eyes were glistening in the dim light. 

"How old was she then?"

"Three."

He gulped, his hands curling into tight fists as raged bubbled up in his chest. He'd known Jeyne's husband had been vile and cruel, but what kind of man would hurt a little girl?

"That's when I met my second husband," Sansa continued her story. "His sister had been raiding our coasts, and unfortunately for her, Frou Rosamund had sent her son Ramsay after her. We worked together, to get Jeyne and his sister back, and to seal this newfound alliance, we were married."

"You were married to seal an alliance?"

"Ja, does that seem odd to you?"

He nodded. Marriage was a sacred vow, a man and a woman who chose each other, usually with the intention of staying together for life. "Did you want to marry him?"

"Not really." She shrugged.

"Then why did you? You're Kwene."

"Haven't you been paying attention?" She laughed, joyless but with a hint of amusement. "Just because I am, doesn't mean I can do whatever I want."

"I see," Jon mumbled. He did use to think that. 

"Do you?" she asked, but she didn't wait for an answer. "We were an ill-suited match. Men are in charge on the Izeren Eiler, so he believed he could try to rule Winterfell and Noarlan in my stead, the way things would be done there. I made it clear to him that would be unacceptable, but it was difficult for him."

Jon could easily imagine that. He had met many a man who'd hate being ruled by a woman. He was surprised to see a fond smile on her face when he looked up.

"It wasn't all misery, to be fair." She bit her lip. "Our nights together were very pleasurable. He was skilled and voracious in bed."

Jon could feel his face heating up again. He had no idea how to respond to her entrusting him with such intimate knowledge, but she didn't seem to expect an answer.

"Unfortunately," she sighed, "his appetite was too big to be satisfied by one woman, another common practice on the Izeren Eiler, it would seem." 

She paused, angrily pulling on a piece of thread that had gotten caught in the fabric she was embroidering. "I caught him with another woman, and the only reason I didn't geld him for it was to avoid a war with the Greyjoys," she said with a smile.

It didn't faze him. Both Ygritte and Maglyn would have cut off his cock and balls with a rusty knife if he'd betrayed them like that. "What did you do to the woman?"

"You met her."

It only took a moment for him to catch on. "Poppy?"

"Ja."

"Why didn't you punish her?"

"I did. She used to be one of my bed maids, now she's just a scullion."

He didn't quite understand why that was a punishment. She still had a roof over her head, she was still eating Sansa's food. "You could have sent her away."

"And then what? She would have followed that man back to the Izeren Eiler, believing he loved her the way she loved him. He might have taken her in to use her some more, but sooner or later, she'd end up alone, and Izerenborn aren't kind to women, especially not foreign ones."

"And what would that be to you? She wronged you, she betrayed you."

"She's of Noarlan, she's my responsibility."

"You sent your first husband away," he reminded her.

"And I told you that was a mistake," she countered angrily. "One I swore I wouldn't make again."

"So you showed her kindness, and she betrayed you again." It was a great risk to be too gentle with those who had wronged you. Had he really once believed this woman was incapable of kindness?

"So she did. Do you believe my _kindness _was my mistake this time?"

_Do you? _"I don't know," he answered honestly. "What are you going to do to her this time?"

"Nothing yet," she said without missing a beat. 

"What does that mean?"

"She's following orders," she pointed out. "So were those guards who tried to abduct you."

He understood. "You want to find out who gave the orders."

"Obviously."

"So you're just going to pretend nothing's happened?" he asked

"Two of my men are dead. I can't pretend nothing's happened," she corrected him. "But you and I are the only people who know about the gullboler in your ale. I told Jeyne, so she can make sure your food or drink isn't tampered with again, but I don't think we should tell anyone else."

"Agreed."

She offered him a grin which he returned without thinking, until he realized what he was doing and averted his eyes.

"Is there more?" he asked after an uncomfortable silence.

She glanced up at him, seemingly distracted. "More?"

"You said you'd been married three times. What about your third husband?"

"There's not much to tell," she muttered. "My third husband was Frou Karstark's brother. I hardly had the time to truly get to know him, but he managed to get me with child twice. The second time I lost his babe was the day they told me he'd been killed by Fergermen."

"I'm sorry," he choked out, wishing he could think of something better to say.

"Why?" she asked, lifting her chin. "Did you kill him?"

He had killed Sudligers, during raids, and when the fuckers had tried to hunt him down, so he couldn't be sure. "Nei, I don't think so," he told her.

"Good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hudskifter: skinchanger, shapeshifter  
gullboler: a hallucinogenic mushroom  
telling: story  
ferske: song  
parning: a coupling that takes place during a sambinding ritual  
Flodfaste: Riverrun  
Izeren Eiler: Iron Islands  
Izerenborn: Ironborn
> 
> Jon and Sansa are not done talking yet, but this chapter was getting long enough. Next chapter will be the second part of their conversation.


	15. Sansa

Sansa looked down at her lap, hiding her face. She hadn't loved Harrion, not yet, but it had been another marriage that ended badly for her, another good man who'd been lost. Another blow disrupting her hope for an heir, her dream to have a child of her own.

She wasn't surprised at the tears on her cheeks. They were faling for Domeric and Harrion, even for Theon, but most of all she was crying for the children she'd never hold in her arms.

"I am sorry," she heard Jon say again. "For your husband. And for the babes you lost."

She wiped the wetness on her cheeks away with the back of her hand. His eyes were fixed on the furs covering his bed.

"You must have questions," she said, tucking her needlework back into her basket.

When she looked up again, he met her gaze and she offered him a watery smile. There was an odd glint in his eyes, but it was gone again before she could decide what it was.

"I'm not sure I understand why you're telling me all of this," he said slowly, genuinely confused, but with a hint of suspicion in his voice. 

_We are talking, _she told herself. _He's listening to me. _For now, that had to be enough.

"I'm trying to make sense of what's happening," she answered, folding her hands in her lap. "I believe sometimes we should look at the past in order to understand the present."

She knew it wasn't much of an answer, and that there was more to tell, but all in due time.

"Anything else?" she encouraged him.

"The wolf thing?" he asked after a short silence. "How does that work?"

After his initial shock, Jon didn't seem to be afraid of that part of her anymore. The curiosity she detected in his voice pleased her. 

"I'm a Wulf," she told him. "It's in my blood. I was born like this."

"So you've always been able to..."

"Nei." She shook her head. "Children can't shift. I had my skova when I was three-and-ten." She winced at the memory.

"Does it hurt?" Jon asked. 

"Not anymore," she laughed.

"Do your people know about you?"

"Of course they do. It's a gift from the Goader. It allows me to protect them."

Jon made a face, opening his mouth as if he was looking for the right words, but closed it again, a crease appearing between his eyebrows.

"You don't agree?"

"Heksery is dangerous," he muttered. "It's a sword without a hilt. There's no safe way to wield it."

"Depends on the wielder." She shrugged. "I'm sure I'd be a danger to myself and others if you put a sword or a bow or an axe in my hands, but my mem and moike started teaching me tradyshe en faerdiger when I was three. There are always risks, and I'm still learning, but being a Wulf and a wize is as much a part of me as my name or the colour of my eyes."

The sullen frown on his face told her her words hadn't convinced him.

"Fergermen don't have wizen or heksen?" she suggested, raising an eyebrow.

"Ja, we do," he answered. "There are women who can help you get rid of a cough or a kweageast, who can bring a child back from the brink of death or cleanse a woman when she has an unwanted babe in her belly."

"And what about hudskifters?"

His fingers dug into the furs on the bed for a moment before he looked up. "I met a man at Hardhem who could enter the mind of birds."

She nodded. "Hollyngean, that's a rare talent."

"I heard a tale of a village near the Froastfaenger, of a family who could change into skaedkatte." He chuckled. "And my friend Tormund used to brag that his mem was a bear. I never believed him, but now... Who knows?"

She smiled at the fond look on his face. "Where is he now, your friend?"

He averted his eyes. "Probably back beyond the Mur."

She watched as he turned to face the window, lost in thought and seemingly unaware of what he was doing. She wondered if there were others he was thinking of and missing. Did he have a woman beyond the Mur? 

She'd been so focused on bringing back Jon's memories, on getting back the Jon she used to know that the possibility hadn't occurred to her before. He was a healthy, young man, strong and handsome, it was stupid to think he hadn't been with other women.

She tried to push down the sharp pang she felt at the idea. She'd been with other men, she had loved at least one of them, it was absurd for her to feel jealous of some woman who may or may not exist. Still, she realized she'd like to know.

But she would not ask him today. Some other time perhaps. Today she was supposed to answer his questions, to explain some things to him and perhaps make him understand. She would not remind him of anything that might make him resent her more than he already did.

"There used to be more people like us," she sighed. "Wizen, heksen, hollyngers, hudskifters, syners, beiner. But the world is changing."

It reminded her of the sad song she'd heard in the Ferskesaengers' Hertbom. _So learn well the words of my song. For when I am gone, the singing will fade, and the silence will last long and long. _

There was a soft knock on the door and Jeyne entered with a tray of food. She put it down on the table, not sparing a glance at Jon, but arched an eyebrow, giving Sansa a meaningful look. 

Sansa pursed her lips to hold back her answering smile. 

"Eat," she told Jon after Jeyne had left again, but he didn't move off the bed to pick up the tray.

She tilted her head in question.

"I think she doesn't like me, that one," he observed.

"Jeyne?" 

He nodded in response.

"Jeyne is my oldest and truest friend," she answered, ignoring his accusation. _She would never betray me like that._

"And you're sure it's safe?"

"I trust her."

He pushed himself off the bed and lifted the tray off the table, taking it back to the bed. 

"Is she also a hekse?"

She nodded. "Ja."

"What about the woman who put the gullboler in my ale?" he asked, picking up a slice of bread to tear off a chunk.

"Nei," she laughed. "You don't need to be a hekse to find some herbs or mushrooms and put them in someone's food."

He chewed and looked up at her. "Herbs?"

He was still as sharp-witted as she remembered. She bit her lip.

"Last night," she started, thinking. "Things look and sound and smell different when I'm the wolf, but judging from your behaviour last night, and, well, this morning..." She let her words trail off, trying to push back the confusing memory of waking up with him. Now was not the time to let herself dwell on that.

"Gullboler can affect people in different ways, but I suspect there was something else in your food."

"Something else?"

"The effects were wearing off this morning, but something was still lingering in your mind and body."

From what he'd told her and from the answers Margryt from the kitchens had given her, she guessed Jon had eaten there shortly after noon, and yet it had taken until later that night for whatever he'd been given to start affecting him.

"How did you fall into the pool?" she asked him. 

He stirred his spoon around in his bowl of stew, his forehead wrinkling in concentration. "I'm not sure. I woke up, and one moment I was fine, but then I sort of lost control over my body, as if it couldn't remember how to move," he mused.

That narrowed it down a bit, there were several plants that made a man lose controle over his muscles, which had probably been the purpose of the people who wanted to abduct him.

She suspected they'd given him the gullboler to make it look as if his odd behaviour was caused by too much ale in case anyone saw him. 

But gullboler would have had other effects on him, effects that might have been enhanced or diminished by other substances. 

"Did you see anything? Was there ever a time when you felt as if you left your body and had visions of any kind?"

He lowered his eyes and she could see the tips of his ears turning red. 

"Nei," he mumbled. "But I had these strange dreams."

"Dreams? What kind of dreams?"

He cleared his throat. "I saw the Hertbom, and the Wulvanwald, and you. And also other people," he added hastily. "But I didn't know them."

"What did they look like?"

He shrugged. "There was a woman. I think she had pale hair, and her eyes were-- I remember her eyes, one was purple and the other was green."

Purple and green. She'd seen a cage of amethyst and emerald in her visions. "What was she doing?"

"I don't know." He shook his head, a shiver visibly shaking him. "I was afraid of her. What's with all the questions?"

"You wanted to know what that 'something else' was, right?"

"Ja."

"I believe it was faemoss," she said.

Jon's nose wrinkled up. "Never heard of that."

"It's rare," she answered. _But it grows abundantly on the rocks outside of Frigtfort. _As far as proof went, it wasn't enough, but Sansa knew in her heart that she was right. She understood now why Frou Bolton was coming to the Garkoming.

Should she share her suspicions with Jon? He deserved to know, he was the target. _Because of me, _she thought bitterly. Frou Bolton knew Jon was in Winterfell, and who he was, that much was clear, but how had she found out?

Meister Luwin would have told her if any ravens had been sent to Frigtfort. It was likely that Poppy, Godric and Ralf had other allies within the castle then.

_How many more people who bear me so much ill will are living inside my home right now? _she wondered.

Perhaps there really were only three of them. Frou Karstark also knew about Jon, perhaps more people at Karheld did. Frou Alys was loyal to her, Sansa was certain of it. 

"I can hear you thinking," Jon muttered. He'd finished his food and was staring at her. 

"I'm trying to figure out who wants to harm me by hurting you, Jon," she answered. There was still enough time to tell him about Frou Bolton. First, she needed a plan.

"But why?" Jon asked, his face clouded with confusion and suspicion. "Why are they trying to hurt _me? _What do you want from me?"

"I've told you," she said. It was only half a lie.

"I don't understand. For some fucked up reason you believe I can give you a babe."

_Not some fucked up reason. _It was fate, the will of the Goader, they were meant to be, but even now, she couldn't tell him that. He probably already believed she was mad, she'd only be making matters worse.

"But then why haven't you just-- I mean, you've had a couple of opportunities to-- You could have..." his incoherency was oddly endearing.

"You mean I missed my chance to seduce you into a dalliance?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Is that some fancy Knaler word for fucking?"

She laughed. "And here I was thinking you were too shy to say it."

"Not shy," he muttered. "Just..."

She understood. When she closed her eyes, she could still feel his hands and mouth on her. She wrung her hands together, glancing around the room, and sighed.

"Perhaps I should have been more honest with you from the start." She couldn't tell him everything, but she could tell him about the parning. "I am the Kwene of Noarlan. I can't get with child after a romp in the hay or up against a tree."

He frowned, but said nothing, she couldn't tell if it was because he was still flustered or if he was simply waiting for her to explain.

"Bearing a child is not just a personal wish for me, it is my duty to Noarlan and the Goader to produce an heir." She almost flinched at her own cold, detached words. It was a painful subject for her, difficult to discuss openly, which was one of the reasons why she hadn't told this stranger who was supposed to be her Jon.

"My union has to take place in front of a Hertbom and needs to be witnessed by my people," she concluded.

He stared back at her with a face twisted by shock and disgust, she suspected. "People watch while you're..." He was unable to finish his question.

She nodded. She remembered how odd and uncomfortable she'd been the first time, on her wedding night to Domeric Bolton, but she'd already done this seven times now, and she'd grown used to it. 

She allowed him to mull it over in silence. He'd already had so much to deal with today. Was she making a mistake by telling him all of this now? Perhaps she should leave. If he had more questions, if he wanted to know more, he could come to her.

She couldn't bring herself to move and leave the room. Instead she sat there, worrying her teeth over her bottom lip and smoothing out her skirts. 

After a long silence he asked: "So, that's all you want from me? And you really mean me no harm?"

She bit her lip, trying to push down the hope she could feel bubbling up in her chest. 

_I want everything from you, _she thought, but she simply nodded again. "That's right."

"Then why don't you take me back to the Goaderwald right now? The castle is full of people, I'm sure you'll find enough witnesses."

Though his offer was clearly not a serious one, but purposely blunt to get a reaction out of her, part of her was tempted to take it seriously. Unfortunately it would be useless, no matter how much she wanted him, and she'd decided she'd try to be honest with him.

She arched an eyebrow and looked him in the eye. "Why so eager suddenly, Jon?"

"I- I only meant- I didn't," he stammered, his facing turning a bright red.

She allowed herself a small smile. "Unfortunately it doesn't work like that for me," she said. "I can only conceive during the Follmoane following Nattlika and Solturne."

He only said: "Oh."

The silence between them became uncomfortable to Sansa, but she understood it was a lot to take in for him. 

Both of his hands were fisted into the furs on his bed and his mouth was a thin line. "So if I give you a babe, you'll let me go?"

She bit her lip. Her word was sacred, she'd have to phrase her promise exactly right. "If I give birth to a healthy daughter, you'll be free to stay or go, as you please," she told him.

He clenched his jaw, narrowing his eyes. "And what if you don't? If I can't give you what you want?"

She'd followed the law with Domeric: a husband who couldn't father a child was a useless husband, and his fate was either exile or death, but this was Jon, and she knew it was not what he was asking. 

"The omens are good," she assured him. "You won't fail."

His shoulders rose and fell as he took a deep breath. "And if I refuse?"

She was almost surprised he hadn't asked her that earlier. Should she tell him she wished he didn't? How could they be so far apart, sitting so close together? 

She'd been trying to protect herself for too long, and her reticence had caused him to fear her and run from her. Saving his life had obviously been a first step in closing that distance between them, but she knew it was going to take a lot more. 

She could not tell him what was in her heart, not yet, he had no reason to believe her, but she could show him some kindness, try to prove to him he was wrong to still expect the worst from her. 

"You tried to escape," she said, "so you must understand it will take a while for me to learn how to trust you again."

His eyes were cold, dark slits, but he nodded. _I know, _she thought, _I know it must be even harder for you to trust me._

"But in time, once we know you are safe, should you find yourself unable to consent to my request, and if you prove yourself trustworthy, I might give you a keep of your own, with a bit of land."

He stared back at her, calmly studying her face, but his own gave nothing away. 

She needed to have faith in the Goader. Perhaps something good would come from their long separation and Jon's time with the Fergermen. Perhaps this wasn't just about them anymore.

"Who knows?" she said in a tone she was hoping would come off offhandedly, though her voice sounded thin and unsteady to her own ears, like that of a nervous young girl. "Perhaps this could even be the start of a better understanding between Noarlan and the Fergermen."

She could see him shaking his head. 

"Peace would be welcome for both sides," she reminded him. "It would improve matters for all of us."

"You're a dreamer, Wulf Kwene," he muttered. 

She chuckled. "Is that a compliment or an insult?"

He gave her a reluctant grin. "I'm not sure." He sat staring at the furs covering the bed in silence.

"I suppose you'll want an answer then?" he asked. 

She rose to her feet, clasping her hands in front of her. "Not right away," she told him. "But Nattlika will be here soon. And after that it's three more moons until Solturne."

He gave her a grim nod, which she tried not to take personally. 

She turned away to leave the room. "Come to me if you have more questions," she said, facing away from him, not waiting for an answer.

She put her hand on the doorknob and hesitated, suddenly remembering her vision in the Werewald and the Ferskesaengers' song. She'd never heard it before, but the Hertbom she'd visited had been beyond the Mur, what if that meant that perhaps--

She whirled around. "Jon?" she asked.

He glanced up at her. "Ja?"

"Do you know any song that has these words in it?" She sang out the lines she remembered. "S_o learn well the words of my song. For when I am gone, the singing will fade, and the silence will last long and long."_

A frown appeared on his face. "Every child beyond the Mur knows that song," he answered.

"Can you sing it for me?" she asked breathlessly.

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm not much of a singer."

"Perhaps some other time," she said, smiling at the confused look on his face for a moment longer before opening the door and leaving the room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lexicon:
> 
> skova: transformation  
mem: mother  
moike: aunt  
tradyshe en faerdiger: tradition and skills, magic  
wize: wise person, witch  
hekse: witch  
kweageast: evil spirit  
hudskifters: shapeshifters  
hollyngean: warging  
skaedkatte: shadowcats  
hollyngers: wargs  
syners: seers  
beiner: manipulators, benders  
faemoss: fairy moss  
Frigtfort: Dreadfort  
parning: coupling that takes place during a sambinding  
Nattlika: equinox  
Solturne: solstice


	16. Author's Note

Hi there!

I wanted to let everyone who's still interested in this fic know that I'll start updating this again soon!

I'll post 2 chapters on Thursday, and after that, I'll try to stick to a twice-a-week schedule, with updates on Mondays and Thursdays.

😊❤️❤️❤️

I'm going to leave this lovely [edit](https://amymel86.tumblr.com/post/187235946489/they-will-be-hanged-at-dawn-he-closed-his-eyes) by Amymel86 here in this chapter because I love it so much 😍😍😍


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